


Football, Calculus, and Cappuccinos

by xMagicalMystery



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Muggle, F/M, Football | Soccer, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, football player James, jily
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2019-06-25 17:45:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 41,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15645786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xMagicalMystery/pseuds/xMagicalMystery
Summary: At eighteen years old, James Potter has a lot going on. He's a rising star navigating the politics of professional football, the pitfalls of sudden fame, the fallout from choosing his dream over his father's company... and a serious crush on the red headed new barista at his favourite coffee shop.





	1. Who are you?

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing gets me off like football players and James Potter. Naturally, I've made my return to the world of fanfiction to combine the two.

**Chapter 1: Who are you?**

"Just so we're clear: you  _do_  know that there's a coffee shop right across the street from our home, correct? And several others in the near vicinity?"

James Potter lets out an exhausted sigh. "I ought to. You mention it enough."

"Then  _why_ ," Sirius starts for what must be the hundredth time, "are we trudging across the city for one?"

" _I_  am making the  _short and pleasant_ trip to a coffee shop in a  _nearby neighbourhood_  because  _I_  like it. Why  _you_  are here bothering me, I don't know."

Every Thursday, James is forced to endure this very same conversation with his worthless roommate. He tries to avoid Sirius on his way out, moving as silently through their flat as he can manage. But somehow, the fiend always hears him. Like clockwork, as if in a rehearsed scene from a nightmarish play, Sirius sticks his head out into the hall to ask where James is going, just as he picks his keys up off the entryway table. James silently prays to the Lord above or whoever else is listening for strength and patience, and answers wearily: he's getting coffee. And as always, he asks, "Do you want anything?" – knowing full well what the answer will be, but naively hoping for a different outcome anyways.

"Nah, I'll just come with." And so, it begins.

The trek downstairs is fine at first. They chat about their week and plans for the weekend. It's often the first time in a couple of days that they can really talk – James usually leaves before Sirius wakes up and falls asleep before he comes home, tired out from training – and he thinks oh, this is nice, I've missed my friend. A foolish thought, he learns mere moments later, when he's reminded of the harsh, unfortunate reality of Thursday coffee with Sirius. As soon as he turns towards the bike rack at the side of the building instead of the crosswalk leading to the Starbucks across the street (James nearly shudders at the thought – Starbucks! On a Thursday morning? Laughable.), Sirius narrows his eyes.

"Where are you going?" he asks, as if it's not the very same place week after week.

"The Rabbit Hole," James answers anyways. And it's all downhill from there. It happens so often, Sirius doesn't even need to look up to name every coffee shop they pass along the way anymore. (James knows that London's trendy neighbourhoods weren't filled with more coffee shops than anyone could ever possibly need  _just_  to ruin his life, but sometimes, it feels that way).

So here he is on yet another Thursday morning, listening to the same assault on his love of good coffee once again. And honestly? James doesn't deserve this. He really doesn't. Thursday is his only day off. He's had a very hard week of outrageously early mornings and painfully long training days – tragically devoid of his beloved, overpriced coffee to top it off. James has to start the chore of a drive from his London flat to his football club's training ground in Cobham long before The Rabbit Hole opens for the day (despite his persistent attempts to get Genie, the owner, to open earlier – to reward his loyalty, see?). And while Chelsea F.C. can certainly afford to provide delicious breakfasts personally curated for him by professional nutritionists, he feels asking for cappuccinos with his name drawn in the foam would be a bit much, even for him. Though he may be the star of Chelsea's youth academy, Cristiano Ronaldo he is not – so he  _needs_  his Thursday morning coffee at The Rabbit Hole.

He says as much to Sirius and scowls when – would you believe it? Instead of apologising profusely for his insensitivity, the wanker just laughs! Loud, obnoxious laughter, as though James is the one being ridiculous.  _The nerve._

"Shit, mate. I forgot how hard your life is, being well on your way to getting paid millions to do the only thing you like to do anyways, at the very club you've rooted for since you were a snot nosed little toddler, no less. How terribly difficult it must be for you, having to sacrifice your fancy coffee that tastes exactly like every other coffee in the whole of Europe." When James only glares at the road ahead, Sirius continues. "You may have a real problem, you know. You're an addict. Maybe you should bring that up with your personal nutritionist."

"It is  _not_  the same as every other coffee," James grumbles. He really should have known better than to respond to that particular attack, of all the things Sirius said. Of course it only makes the jerk laugh even harder. Worthless.

* * *

The Rabbit Hole is a quaint (if mildly unattractive) little coffee shop that James has loved since the moment he first walked in. He had discovered it on his way home after going to see a Chelsea match with his parents, years ago. Since then, coming to the Rabbit Hole has become something of a tradition. They would stop by after every Chelsea match, and to celebrate James' junior football team wins. James continued to come even when his father stopped bringing him to matches, and long after he stopped showing up to watch his.

He was nine then, and is months away from nineteen now, and he loves it just as much still. It's full of worn-out, cozy chairs and strange wall art, but what he loves the most is the left wall, which is lined floor to ceiling with shelves filled to the brim with books. And though the place looks constantly in need of a renovation, and half the chairs are stained, and it's a little out of the way, especially in the January cold – James has come here almost every week since he was old enough to leave the house on his own. More often if he can manage it around his football – especially now that he can enjoy the fact that it doubles as a bar.

And though Sirius complains about the trek (which truthfully is not that long at all – nothing in South West London is too long a trek from anything else), James knows he loves it too. A fact that is immediately obvious when Sirius saunters right up to the counter, his usual order already on his tongue before he notices something amiss.

"Who are you?" Sirius asks bluntly, expectantly. The girl behind the counter stares back, looking startled and confused. (Startled and confused: the only natural reaction to meeting Sirius Black for the first time.) James knows all three of the shop's regular employees very well – this one is new. New, and very pretty. She has big green eyes and long auburn hair tied up in a ponytail, her lips pink and full and now set in an unimpressed frown.

"I'm sorry." James steps up to the counter beside his friend and smiles at the girl – trying to balance out Sirius is his fulltime job. "He hasn't been let out of his cell in weeks, he's forgotten how to speak to people. We'll have two regular cappuccinos, please."

"Who are you, though?" Sirius asks again, completely ignoring James' attempt to intervene. Honestly, why does he even try to help him?

"The new barista," the girl responds apprehensively, glancing between the two boys. Her gaze lingers on James (and his heart does  _not_ skip a beat, and her eyes are  _not_ the prettiest emerald green he's ever seen, thank you very much), before focusing her attention back on Sirius. "I'm replacing Margaret."

Sirius grins. "Oh good, I hate that bitch."

New Barista's unimpressed face falls, now looking rather hurt. "Margaret was my aunt," she says quietly, her voice cracking.

This makes Sirius' stupid grin falter. "Was…?"

New Barista swallows and turns away, busying herself with rearranging the boxes of teas lining the shelves behind her. "She uh… there was an accident."

"Oh. Shit." Sirius looks properly ashamed for once, and turns to James for help, but James is too stunned (and embarrassed) to speak. "Listen, I'm so sorry. I had no idea–" Sirius begins, but he is swiftly cut off by a familiar, sharp voice.

"Oh, it's  _you_  again." A very alive Margaret steps out of the back room, and fixes Sirius with a disdainful frown.

Sirius stares at Margaret, then snaps his narrowed grey eyes back to New Barista. She stares right back, clearly satisfied.

"So, that was two regular cappuccinos?" She asks James, throwing him a brilliant smile over her shoulder as she turns away.

All James can do is nod, and all he knows is that he is in trouble.

* * *

As it turns out, Margaret is neither dead, nor New Barista's aunt. She is just moving back home to be closer to her grandkids, and New Barista is just her replacement. It shouldn't have come as a surprise to James - three weeks ago, Margaret's son had sent her a video of her youngest grandson giggling and petting a kitten. James had sat at the bar and nodded along sympathetically while she showed him the video thirteen times and sniffled through a long ramble about how small and cute he was and how many things she was missing. In fact, he may even have been the one to suggest she move to be closer to them. ("I  _know_  you love it here, but surely spending time with your family is more important than the adventure of London, Marg? You're sixty-three.").

It hadn't occurred to him that she might actually do it, and he would have to go the rest of his days without her delicious cappuccinos and the way she wrote his name and made delightful little designs in the foam, just for him. (The fact that Sirius had said "Get a grip, Margaret. He's not even the cutest kid I've ever seen. Not even like, top three," when she got teary eyed was part of the reason she didn't do the same for him.)

New Barista is not quite as good at making hot caffeinated beverages at all, much less making art in them. But James immediately likes her, in spite of her poor beverage making skills interrupting his Thursday routine. He tends to like anyone that can put Sirius in his place – and Sirius is properly shaken by her swift punishment for his rudeness. Not that it makes him any politer.

"I cannot believe you almost made me care about Margaret," Sirius says to her a short while later, the two of them seated on stools at the bar. They've both finished with their first drink and are back for a second. This time, Sirius cuts New Barista some slack and gets a simple tea and a croissant. James is already sipping on his smoothie, and trying not to stare at her too much, keeping his eyes on the TV behind her. There's a match on, and normally he and Sirius would watch on the comically out of place flat screen in the back corner with the volume up. But today, there's something more interesting to focus on.

"She's sixty-three, what could she possibly have done to you?" New Barista asks. A valid question, of course, though there is no way to explain how or why Sirius chooses certain people to terrorize.

"She's also already gone, you can stop pretending you won't miss her now," James adds. "It's only fake hate because he broke up with her niece. Her  _actual_  niece," he explains to New Barista. "But Margaret doesn't like her niece that much anyways."

"I'm not sure I understand the dynamic here. Are you all friends? Family? A cult?"

James laughs. "Why would you immediately jump to a cult?"

"You're weirdly close to an elderly employee, and then there's all of these paintings – why are there so many aliens and eyes everywhere?"

"Genie paints them, but they creep her out too much to put in her house, so she sticks them all here."

New Barista stares at him. "Are you friends with Genevieve Wallace too?"

"She calls him 'sweetie' and never makes him pay for anything," Sirius says in response.

Genevieve Wallace ( _darling please, call me Genie!_ ) is the owner of The Rabbit Hole. She is an aging and rather fabulous woman who had once published a series of successful books that had gone on to become a laughably bad but very lucrative film series. With a hefty fortune to her long-forgotten name, and no children left to care for, she had opened The Rabbit Hole to entertain herself. Part coffee shop, part bar, and that incredible wall of books: it was a solid business model as far as James could tell, even if the place was dusty and old and out of the way. It didn't seem to bother Genie that the location – tucked away in a hard to find corner, away from the shop lined main streets that visitors to the neighbourhood would likely visit – made it so that business was never better than just enough to keep the place running, and then some. She had time, and she had money. The Rabbit Hole was just a fancy.

"That's insane. I  _love_  her books, I couldn't believe it when I showed up at the interview and found out she owns this place!"

James grins. He didn't know of many people their age who had read Genie's books. "I love them too, but I love the movies more. Sirius and I watch them annually. They get better with age."

"Sirius is…?"

Sirius raises his hand, busy eating his croissant and pretending not to notice James' fast developing crush. God bless him, sometimes he isn't completely worthless.

"Ah, the asshole. Then you must be James," she says. "I was warned about you two in my training."

James knows he looks far too pleased at this information, but he can't help the foolish grin. "We're part of the training!"

Sirius snorts, not at all phased by New Barista's name-calling. "Her training was probably just Genie saying, here is the coffee shop. Don't serve minors alcohol unless they can plausibly pass as adults. Also, my only customer's name is James. Ta-ta darling, don't run me out of business."

"That's actually pretty accurate," New Barista says, an amused curve to her lips.

"We should know. We've been coming here since we were nine," James tells her. "Anyways. I didn't catch your name?"

"I'm Lily," she says with a lovely smile.  _Lily._  What a lovely name to match her lovely face and her lovely smile. Why couldn't she be named Gertrude? Or Dolores? Or Chauncey? James could never have a crush on anyone named Chauncey, discriminatory as that may be. But Lily is such a lovely name.

Fortunately, he keeps his lunatic monologue to himself and out loud, he only says, "Nice to meet you, Lily. I'm sure we'll be great friends soon enough." His shifts his focus back to the TV. "Can you turn that up, please?"

Lily reaches for the remote under the bar and turns up the volume, but raises an eyebrow. "It's halftime."

"I like hearing what the commentators have to say."

"… _dominated the first half, but Levinson came in with that beautiful equalizer in stoppage time, and I think that might change the course of the match in the second half. It's been quite a season for Levinson – his first in the Premier League after a transfer from Dortmund last summer. City fans questioned whether he was worth the £50 million price tag, I don't think they'll have many questions after this performance…"_

"Ugh.  _£50 million?"_ Lily mutes the TV again.  _"_ I hate these football players and how grossly overpaid they are."

For a brief moment, James doesn't know what to say. He considers melting into the floor instead, but Lily glances at him before he has the chance, and the words tumble out before he can stop himself. "I know, right? It's absurd."

Sirius coughs and puts down his mug. James can tell he's fighting the urge to laugh. "Is it now?"

"I mean I get it," Lily says. "They're good at what they do. Whatever. All they do is kick a ball around."

"Also true," James agrees, wishing he would shut up instead. Honestly. Lily doesn't know anything about him, she's only just learned his name. He doesn't have to say anything at all. And yet… "It's disgusting."

Sirius looks positively gleeful now, glancing between James and Lily with barely contained mirth in his sharp eyes. "Levinson isn't getting paid the £50 million he was sold for, Dortmund is," he explains. James knows this is a good bit of explanation to get behind, that Sirius is doing him a favour. The fact that he's trying to help instead of happily helping James dig himself a deeper hole is a momentous occasion he ought to mark on his calendar. He ought to nod along and take the opening and convince Lily of how wrong she is.

Instead, he says, "So? That's still an obscene amount of money to spend on him." Technically, he is being honest. James is sure Levinson is a one season wonder – his entire career has been wracked with inconsistent performances, and nothing points to that changing – but he's fairly certain that's not what Lily's thinking when she nods in agreement.

"And I bet he's getting paid an obscene amount too," she adds.

"Oh, he is," Sirius agrees. "I suppose you're right. We, the hardworking masses, have no reason to support lazy and overpaid athletes."

"Well… they're not  _lazy_ ," James mumbles half-heartedly. But it's too late now. The hole has been dug, and Sirius has picked up his shovel.

"I absolutely get your point now, Lily," he continues as if James hadn't spoken. "I mean schoolboys play football for fun! Why should these guys get paid for it?"

Lily looks a little confused at Sirius' sudden turn of opinion. "I suppose. Though I'm sure it takes a little more dedication to play professionally than it does to play for fun at school."

James lets out a heavy sigh. Doesn't he know it. "It really does. The hours are insane."

Lily looks at him curiously. "Are you two big football fans, then?"

"Yeah, I guess we are."

"Some of us are more invested than others." Sirius gives James a significant look, which he determinedly ignores.

"My roommate got us tickets to a match next Saturday," Lily says. "She's a huge fan. It's supposed to be a good one, Arsenal vs. Chelsea? There's apparently a rivalry that she takes very personally." Sirius takes a calm sip of his tea, watching James over the top of the mug. (Has his friend always looked distinctly evil, or is this a new development?)

James puts down his smoothie. "You're coming to that?"

"Oh, are you going too?" Lily smiles, and James momentarily forgets his dread to feel thrilled instead.

"Yeah, I'll be there." She looks pleased, and that makes his brain a bigger mess of worthless mush than it already is. "Maybe we'll catch you after the match," he adds casually. What he probably means is  _maybe we'll catch you after the match and you'll see me for the lying fool I am and banish me from my favourite spot in London, condemning me to a lifetime of shame and misery._

Sirius puts down his empty mug too. "We definitely will. James will be easy to find, I'm sure."

Lily raises an eyebrow. "What does that mean?"

"Oh, you'll see. He's a  _huge_  Arsenal fan. He'll be hard to miss."

James rubs his eyes and runs a hand through his already messy, black hair. He gets up. "Right. Well, we'd better go."

Sirius jumps off his stool too and starts zipping up his coat. "See you on Saturday, Lily."

Lily, looking no less confused by the two now than she had an hour earlier when they walked in, waves goodbye as they head out.

* * *

"Shut up. I don't want to hear a  _word,_ " James snaps before Sirius has even had a chance to say anything. He has only just stopped laughing, and James is not mentally prepared for the abuse that is sure to come next.

"I just want to make sure you remember correctly – you're on the lineup for that match?" Sirius asks with mock concern. James just keeps cycling. "A Champion's League match against your biggest rivals? It was a big deal when you got called up, remember? We had a party. Your mum took us out to dinner to celebrate and everything? You had your steak medium rare."

"I get it. Shut up."

Sirius cackles – really cackles. He is enjoying this far too much. "Oh, you poor sod. That girl just melted your brain. I've never seen such a sorry sight."

"Haven't you? Look in a mirror on a Sunday morning, then."

"So are you going to tell her you're a professional football player before or after she sees you play next weekend?"

"I mean, technically, I'm not. I'm not on the first team yet."

Sirius chuckles happily. "I'm not sure the distinction matters at this point."

James tries not to think about that. He tries not to get too excited too soon. It's true that he has done exceptionally well with Chelsea's youth team – well enough that between playing on the youth team, he often plays for the under-23s and has been called up to the first team more and more often. The extra match days and extra training that comes with it leaves him perpetually exhausted, but he doesn't mind. The conversation around his future gets louder with every match he plays, the interest from other football clubs less and less subtle.

But James has his heart set on Chelsea, and though he hears it all the time – when his youth contract expires at the end of this season, it  _will_  be renewed with a permanent promotion to the first team, it's a sure thing – James refuses to believe it. Not when he still has half a season left to prove he deserves it – or screw up and prove he doesn't. Not when so many other talented players out there could take his spot at any moment. Not when so many people who matter don't want him there at all. Certainly not until he's actually signed something.

"Of course it matters!"

"To  _you_ , not to Lily, who will be quite surprised to find that you're one of the footballers you think so lowly of."

"Nobody's paid £50 million for me yet."

"Yet? Think that highly of yourself, do you? What will Lily think of that?"

James rolls his eyes. "It doesn't matter. I don't have time to date anyways."

"That hardly stopped you from making a fool of yourself."

"Oh, fuck off. All I see all day is sweaty men. She's  _pretty_. That's all."

Sirius starts to laugh again, but mercifully backs off. James doesn't bother mentioning that how much time he has hardly matters. Next weekend, Lily will realize he's a pathological liar and a fool and will never speak to him again anyways. Which is just as well, because James  _doesn't_ have time for a silly crush. Next weekend is the biggest shot he's every been given, a pretty girl should be the very last thing on his mind.

But that doesn't stop him from thinking about her the entire way home, and James knows he is in trouble. He is in  _so_  much trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are greatly appreciated! 
> 
> Come chat with me on tumblr! I'm moonawrites there and on twitter :)


	2. Why are you staring at me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was honestly such a struggle to write, which is why it took a month. I don't know if it's perfect even now, but I can't play with it anymore. On the bright side, it's more than twice as long as chapter 1, and it should be smooth sailing from here!
> 
> A quick disclaimer before we begin, as we move into some football: You don't need to know or care about football to read this, and can skip the rest of this note if you don't. But if you do, and will inevitably catch any inaccuracies I throw in: I may namedrop some famous players here and there, I'm writing about the English Premier League which is real, writing about clubs that exist, and writing during a season that has already happened. However, players that James plays and interacts with, managers etc. are made up and not intended to resemble real people (for the sake of simplicity). Results of the season won't reflect what really happened. And though I do try to keep things about the teams relatively accurate, as we get more detailed (such as style of play etc. if it's ever relevant) I will probably make it up, because it's just not that important. Okay. Phew. Shall we begin?

**Chapter 2: Why are you staring at me?**

James Potter’s legs are aching.

He always gives his best during training. But lately, Samuel Aguado watches him constantly, so James can’t just do well. He needs to be perfect. Aguado, who was a midfielder at Real Madrid when he retired from play ten years ago, is a Spanish football legend in his own right. But that’s not why his opinion matters to James. Now, Aguado is Chelsea’s manager, and that means James’ future with the team lays primarily in his hands.

And though Wednesday training is always the toughest – every movement from the week of training and matches before weighs down on James’ tired muscles – this particular Wednesday is worse. With the match against Arsenal only three days away, the pressure is that much higher: the better he does now, the better shot he’ll have at playing a significant amount of time on Saturday. James has to work twice as hard to impress Aguado and earn play time.

It’ the second last training day before the match, so they’ve mostly been doing exercises to perfect plays and refine tactics, working on getting more comfortable with Aguado’s new preferred formation. But the morning training session had also included one of James’ most hated training exercises: the beep test. Aguado, of course, had watched.

The beep test involves running twenty metre distances again and again in increasingly short amounts of time, until you miss the time limit, or you simply can’t run anymore – it’s one way Aguado likes to evaluate his squad’s fitness and endurance. It’s effective, and James gets it – but it’s a massive energy suck, and always leaves him exhausted. And this time, he had something to prove.

Everyone knows James is fast. But James knows Aguado has been worried that at eighteen, he doesn’t have the stamina some of the more experienced players have. With a score of 17.5 on the test that morning (impressive even by professional football standards), he has put that worry soundly to bed. In fact, he had been the last one running. At the time, James was too exhausted to care, his legs all but giving out underneath him. But looking back on it, it gives him a thrill. He loves doing better than the first team players at anything, even the damn beep test. Each time he does, he hopes Aguado gets the message _: You see? I can play with them. I belong here._

So far, the afternoon session has been excellent, too. James has scored a few goals, including a spectacular goal off a corner kick during a six vs. six exercise that Aguado had loved. Williams had taken the corner and sent the ball right to him, and James had taken control with a header to Jones. He’d moved up in time to receive the ball as Jones volleyed it back, juggling the ball from his left foot to his thigh. Then he’d made a clean shot directly past the goalkeeper’s outstretched arms. Excellent ball control, and a perfectly angled, impossibly fast shot that no one could have stopped: it was a perfect moment.

Since that moment, James has felt an extra hit of adrenaline zipping through his system – whether it’s from the usual thrill of playing good football, or the new thrill of Aguado’s praise and appreciative claps on the back hardly matters. All the extra effort has paid off, but now nearing the end of the day, James is reaching the limits of his stamina. Even after taking a nap before his afternoon training, James’ legs are aching. He feels tired to his bones.

But the day isn’t over yet. After going through several drills, they are closing the session with another mock match, nine vs. nine this time. And Aguado is still watching, so James needs to keep playing, and he needs to be perfect.

James begs his legs for five more minutes of cooperation and zeroes in on the ball as Jordi Price, one of their midfielders, throws it back into play. All at once, James forgets the aches and every other thing around him.

Michael Coleman, Chelsea’s star forward and one of James’ long-time idols, has possession now. He weaves through the midfield with an effortless ease that James can’t help but envy.

James and Coleman are playing on opposite sides in this exercise, which is for the best. Though he is fine playing anywhere in the attacking zone, James is at his best playing left winger – and so, unfortunately, is Coleman. When they play on the same side, James has to play right wing or move back to the midfield. Playing a different position is a little bit tougher, but James is a versatile player and good enough to manage that just fine. It’s Coleman’s personal distaste for him that makes it tricky. James had been disheartened to find that one of his heroes was just a self-absorbed, unprofessional arsehole with a particular dislike for him, but he has come to terms with that fact now. He can’t care about who likes him anymore, he has bigger goals to worry about.  

“Potter, Hussain, move up!” Aguado yells from the sidelines. “The transition between attack and defence needs to happen faster.”

James follows his instructions, running up closer to the action. “Stay there, keep to the outside!” Aguado calls, and James slows. He doesn’t take his eye of the ball for a moment, keeping track of every player around him.

Coleman gets through the wall in their midfield and makes a stellar cross (damn it, he’s so fucking good, James can almost forget what a jerk he is) to Miller, who is in a good spot to shoot from.

Miller takes the shot, and it comes off the post. James isn’t surprised – he’s noticed that Miller never gets it in from the right, this close to the goalpost. It’s a fine angle, it’s just not his.

Anderson, a defender on his side, takes possession of the ball as it ricochets off the post and heads it towards Williams, who starts a run back towards the halfway line with it.

James feels a thrum in his veins as he moves up ahead of Williams. He’s aware of where every player is and where they’re moving, as though he’s watching pieces on a chessboard. Responding to their movements, adjusting his own position accordingly – it feels as natural to him as walking.

Williams passes the ball to him.

James weaves through midfielders and defenders, the ball moving with him like an extension of his own feet.

In his periphery, he sees Amar Hussain on his left - an attacking midfielder and their captain. One of his icons who has turned out to be as incredible off the pitch as he is on it.

James doesn’t take his eyes off the goal in front of him. It’s too heavily defended right now for him to risk losing the ball for, but he surges forward as if to shoot… and so quickly it takes the others a moment to spot what he’s done, he’s passed the ball behind him, back to Amar.

As Amar rushes forward in the brief moment of disorientation James has won them, James makes to position himself at the bottom left of the penalty box, his sweet spot for scoring. There’s a clear line from Amar to him, and then from him to the goal. He’d seen the move play out in his head just before he put it motion – it’s perfectly executed so far, it’s a sure thing if Amar completes the final pass just right, and James knows that he will.

It all happens in a split second. Amar kicks the ball at exactly the right moment. The defenders move for it, realizing a second too late that James is going to take the shot, not Amar. Coleman sees it, and he’s closing in on his right, but James is faster.

James gets there first as he knew he would. He’s going to take a perfect shot and watch it sore past their reserve goalkeeper’s head.

The ball is at his feet, he’s surging forward, his blood singing in anticipation – and then Coleman lunges straight at him.

James feels an elbow ram into his ribs with excruciating force – they’re both moving so fast – and he’s on the ground before he even feels the pain, landing awkwardly on his left shoulder. Only after James is down does Coleman touch the ball, kicking it with a force that sends it all the way back across the halfway line.

From the ground, James blinks up at him in shock. Coleman’s expression is vicious and satisfied, though by the sound of the whistle blowing and his teammates shouting around him, everyone else knows what James knows: if this was a real match, that would be a red card. Coleman hadn’t been going for the ball, he had been going for James.

There’s a commotion around him that James can’t keep track of. He wants to cuss the bastard out – it had been a perfect play, a perfect chance that he had created and would have delivered on. It would have been a perfect moment, Aguado would have been so impressed. But no sound escapes him as he sits up slowly, dazed and in pain, his ribs on fire and his shoulder aching.

Aguado and a medic are at his side in an instant, Amar is kneeling down next to him, and Coleman is strolling off the pitch like nothing has happened. James had initially interpreted Coleman’s dislike as aloofness and a general attitude of superiority, an international celebrity who just has no time for an academy player, but now he feels like it’s personal. He had been disappointed to discover someone he looked up to was just a shit person severely lacking in sportsmanship off camera, but now he’s furious.

James wants to leap to his feet and knock Coleman to the ground, repay him for his little stunt with a sound punch to the face. Thankfully, he’s in too much pain to act on an impulse that would be sure to knock him off Saturday’s lineup. Instead, a new panic settles over him: what if he’s really injured? What if he _can’t_ play on Saturday? If this causes an injury that would have him miss the match, he might kill Coleman on the spot. He waits, anger and anxiety coursing through him in turns, as the medic assesses the damage.

“There’s going to be some bruising. Keep some ice on it,” the medic says after a long moment, handing him an icepack. James nods, holding it in place under his shirt as he sits up. “You’ll need to go in for a massage after training, I’ll leave special instructions for your shoulder with Alina,” he says. Alina is one of the team’s best masseuses. She’s excellent for speeding up recovery.

“I’m okay to play though, right?” James asks anxiously.

“After some rest, yes,” the medic assures him.

James lets out a relieved breath and nods – he can stay calm now. A bruise he can handle. With a bruise, he can bite his tongue and swallow down his anger. “Thank you.”

Chest heaving with exertion form the session, James picks himself up of the ground. He takes the bottle of water Amar passes him and takes a drink, squeezing it with unnecessary force, as though he can take his fury out on the harmless piece of plastic.

“What just happened, Potter?” Aguado demands. James can’t quite hold back the flash of anger on his face as he turns to the manager. Why is he asking _him_ , as though he had done something wrong? But the constant reminders to keep his temper in check are loud in his mind right now.

James is constantly, acutely aware of the position he’s in – a youth team player being given the opportunity to play a match like this, even as a sub, is colossal. He can’t show up to the incredible opportunities the first team manager presents him with and then cuss him and his star player out.

“A bad tackle,” is all he says through gritted teeth, already walking off the pitch. “It’s nothing.”

A foul like this against a teammate in training is despicable behaviour, and Coleman will probably get a warning from Aguado and Amar – but James knows that their star player, such a key member of their squad, will not likely face any real consequences. Not unless James makes it a formal complaint, and he won’t do that. Whatever Coleman’s problem is, James wants no part in it, he doesn’t want the hassle, and he certainly doesn’t want to jeopardize their chances on Saturday.

Amar claps him on his good shoulder. “You did well, Potter. Quick thinking with that back pass.”

James only nods in thanks. It’s true, but in the moment it just feels like consolation, and it makes him feel small. Some of the other players pat him on the back as they walk past. He can feel Aguado’s eyes on him for a moment longer, then sees him walk towards Coleman in his peripheral, calling it a day and sending the rest of the team off the pitch.

Some days, James stays behind for additional one on one technical and physical training. But today, he’s at his end mentally and physically. Even the thought of just walking back to the dressing room and driving home makes him want to drop to the ground right there and sleep. Or cry. He’s _so_ tired _._

x.x.x.x.x

As James is leaving the massage room an hour later – feeling much better about mostly everything after the magic that has been worked on his body – he comes face to face with Samuel Aguado waiting outside in a crisp suit.  Off the pitch, Aguado always wears a suit. James halts, wondering what this is about, and waits for the manager to speak.

“How do those legs feel?” Aguado asks.

“Better now. Still sore, though,” James admits.

Aguado frowns, and motions for James to walk with him. “I don’t want you overexerting yourself. Go in for an ice bath before you leave today. And take Friday morning to rest – just forty-five minutes at the gym and ninety with the squad in the afternoon.”

James nods, falling into step beside him. “Got it.”

“You did well today. Deliver like that off a corner on Saturday, and I’ll take you out for drinks.”

James grins. “I’ll keep that in mind, thank you.”

They’re approaching Aguado’s office now, and James’ heartrate picks up. He wouldn’t talk to James about his place on the team without his agent present, but Aguado’s office means private feedback. It means face time with the first team manager that an academy player can only dream of. It might mean a telling off for what happened with Coleman, but James can’t imagine how anyone could possibly blame that on him.

“I need to see more aggression from you,” Aguado says as they walk. “You’re young and some of these players are your heroes. Forget that. They’re your peers now, and I need that temper.”

“Yes sir,” James says, a little surprised. His temper is verging on notorious, his style usually calculated and sleek and… appropriately aggressive, if required. James has picked up some cards playing with the academy and U-23s. He’s strategic about it though, and knows where to draw the line. Still, usually, he’s being told to keep his temper in check.

Inside his office, Aguado bypasses his desk and motions instead to a seat at a glass table by the window. James takes it, and Aguado sits across from him. The walls are decorated with pictures of Aguado holding every trophy James could ever dream of winning.

“The fact is, you may be an inexperienced kid, but when you play, it’s hard to tell. Don’t get pushed around. You had a scoring opportunity, and you lost it. You didn’t try to get Coleman out of the way and you assumed he’d do the same.” James nods. It’s true – he does sometimes have a hard time playing the same way with his icons as he does with the youth and U-23 teams. “What happened with Coleman today, I don’t want to see a repeat of that ever again.”

James swallows. “Yes sir,” he says again. God, he can hardly speak around him.

“Bring me that temper on Saturday, James. That fire I see when you play with the U-23s. It’s not just about the skill, I know you have that. I need to know you can hold your own against men with a decade of experience on you and who you may have looked up to. I need to see tackles, I need to see you fight back.”

“I’ll come ready to eat them alive,” James says with a nervous laugh. He has been working hard to stay constantly calm, collected – he wants to sigh in relief, hearing that Aguado _wants_ him to respond.

Aguado nods, satisfied. “Come prepared to play, too. You will not be spending ninety minutes on the bench.”

James can’t stop his smile, only barely keeps his ass planted firmly in his seat instead of jumping up in excitement. “You’re saying I’m…?”

“Definitely playing? Yes. How long depends on how the match goes. But I’m giving you an opportunity to show us how you play when the stakes are high.”

James isn’t entirely sure how to respond. All he can manage around his racing heart is, “Wow… thank you, Sir.” _Get it together, idiot._

“You’re fast, James, and you have a goal scoring intuition I haven’t seen in a player your age in a very long time. Now I don’t expect that you’ll score in your first match of this caliber – your job on Saturday is to do what you need to do to support the team, be where they need you to be. We have a very experienced squad, they’ve all played hundreds of matches like this. You just need to follow their ques.”

James frowns. “Are you telling me _not_ to try to score?”

“No. I’m telling you not to beat yourself up for it if you don’t. You’re always hard on yourself, and that’s a good thing. But I want you to remember that it’s a different pace of play than academy or U-23 matches, you won’t be the best man on the pitch here.”

 _Ah._ So Aguado is worried about James feeling _stressed._ Ha! As if a few kind words could alleviate that, even if they are from the one person whose opinion matters most. James is drowning in stress, all but choking on it. “I know that.”

“It’s also a different pace of play than the other matches you’ve played with the first team. It’s not a friendly. It’s not a low-pressure league game against a team we can handle easily – those got you acclimated to playing with this squad. But this is the Champion’s League, it’s the quarter finals, and it’s Arsenal.”

James leans forward excitedly, unable to control the grin on his face, even as Aguado stays perfectly neutral. “It’s _the_ match.”

“Yes. What I’m saying is, a good performance from you in this match may not be the same as the usual good performance from you, and that’s fine. Play for the squad, help them, follow their lead. That’s what I’m looking for.”

James settles back down, commanding himself to calm the hell down. “Right.”

“However – your speed and intuition and technical skill might take them by surprise. They’re not expecting an academy player being tested in a match like this, but they also don’t know just how good you are. We do. You have a knack for creating chances no one else sees, you get through defenders like they’re not there, and when you run up with the ball, no one can keep pace with you. If the opportunity is there –”

“Or if I create it,” James cuts in.

Aguado pauses, the hint of a rare smile on his tanned face. “Yes. Then take it.”

 

* * *

 

“Sirius tells me you met a girl.”

James glances up from the salad he’s cutting and frowns at his mother. He’d been ready to fall asleep after training, and he’s still standing on aching, exhausted legs. But it’s Wednesday night, so he’s home for dinner at Euphemia’s request. As usual, her dark hair is atop her head in an elegant twist, and when she looks up from her task of putting the food into serving dishes, her warm brown eyes carry a hint of humour and mischief.

“What girl?” he asks casually. He knows what girl. James loves his mother with all his heart, but he knows this conversation is going nowhere good. Euphemia has a vested interest in James’ personal life, and wastes no opportunity to make fun of him. It’s quite rude, as she is his mother and should only ever dote on him and take his side, but Euphemia doesn’t feel that same sense of loyalty.

“The redhead,” she says. Of course, she knows that he knows what girl.

“So? Sirius met her too.”

“Sirius tells me you made a fool of yourself.”

“Why do you listen to what Sirius says?”

Euphemia fixes James with an accusing look. “Because he texts me more than you do. Honestly honey, would it kill you to call?”

“I see you several times a week, mother.”

“Yes well, so does Sirius. He still texts me.”

“Yes well, I am here helping with dinner and Sirius is off in some poor girl’s– ” at Euphemia’s horrified expression (honestly, as if she doesn’t _know_ ), James redirects “–well, he’s not _here,_ at any rate.”

“Don’t deflect. I want to know about the redhead.”

James sighs. Euphemia will not be distracted, he knows this from experience. “I hardly know anything about her! I only met her once, briefly.”

“Well what _do_ you know about her?”

“She works at The Rabbit Hole,” James says with a noncommittal shrug.

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Yes mum, she’s a pretty girl that I met one time.” He looks at her pointedly and adds, “Because she made my coffee.”

“Sirius tells me she’s coming to your match on Saturday.”

Sirius needs a talking to. “Is that relevant?”

“Of course it is, darling. Did you invite her?”

James laughs. “No, I told you I just met her! She just happens to be going with her friends.”

“You know, girls love a football player.”

“Not Lily.”

Euphemia points her ladle accusingly at her son. “So you know her name _and_ that she doesn’t like football players?”

James winces. “Yes. I suppose.”

“I didn’t raise a liar.”

“Yes you did. I lie all the time.”

“Like to Lily, about being a football player?”

James puts his knife down and picks up his phone. “I’m disinviting Sirius from dinner, hope you don’t mind.”

“Put that phone down. I need one boy here who tells me the truth.”

“How much do you already know, mother?” Now James points his phone at her accusingly.

“Well… all of it,” she admits, not looking the least bit ashamed of her trickery.

James is affronted.  Honestly, this woman is his _mother!_ “And you’ve been acting all innocent. No wonder I turned out to be a pathological liar! _You_ made me this way.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, James.” James mutinously cuts up the rest of the tomatoes. He thinks the conversation is over for a moment, but then, after some silence: “You haven’t had a girlfriend in ages.”

“Oh my God.”

“Why would you lie to a pretty girl the moment you met her?”

“I don’t know, why did you raise a liar?”

“Don’t sass me. I don’t care if you’ve moved out, I’ll still send you to your room.”

“Sorry. Also, I only broke up with Cecilia like two months ago.”

“She doesn’t count.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t like her. Can’t you date a nice girl?”

James rolls his eyes. “No. Nice girls want my time and energy, and I have neither.”

Euphemia frowns at her son. “You have no sense of romance.”

“No. But I have potential, backed up by drive and ambition. Isn’t that better?”

“Drive and ambition won’t give me grandchildren in five years.”

“I’m eighteen!” James balks, staring wide eyed at his mother.

“You’re nineteen in less than two months. Twenty-four is a perfectly decent age to have children.”

“You assume someone will actually want to procreate with him.” This from Sirius, who has let himself in and is strolling casually into the kitchen. James gives the traitor a dirty look as he walks over to Euphemia and kisses her cheek.

“A valid point,” Euphemia sighs, patting Sirius’ cheek. “If only he’d stop lying to every pretty girl he meets.”

James glares at them. Individually, they’re both a lot. But together, they are far too much. “I hate both of you, and I’m never coming to dinner again.”

“If you win on Saturday, I’m inviting Lily to the celebration party,” Sirius says happily, seamlessly picking up on and easing into their conversation. He completely ignores James’ idle threat, already picking at Euphemia’s food.

“You will not.”

“Also, if you lose, I’m inviting her to the pity party. You can cry on her shoulder.”

“I’m removing your name from my Instagram bio.”

“Don’t you dare, James Potter!”

“His name is in your Instagram bio?” his mother asks, swatting Sirius’ hand away from another dish.

“Sirius wants people to know that he’s my best friend, just in case they get too attached to one of my teammates.” He grins rather maliciously at Sirius. “I’m going to remove your name _and_ start tagging Mateo in memes instead. He’s going to be in _so_ many stories.”

“You wouldn’t!” Sirius looks horrified. Mateo Aris is one of James’ academy teammates, the one he would consider his closest friend on the team. Though no one new could ever compare to the friendship he has with Sirius – one that they have been building on since primary school – Sirius is comically jealous of the new addition to James’ life.

“Sometimes, I worry about how codependent you two are,” Euphemia says.

“Do you really?” James snorts. “Or do you actually enjoy Sirius telling you the details of my every interaction?”

“I don’t tell her about all your interactions. Only the PG ones,” Sirius says with a suggestive wiggle of his brows. James groans.

“There are others?” Euphemia demands, turning on Sirius.

“Please. You let two hormonal teenagers get their own flat,” Sirius says, rolling his eyes.

James can’t believe he has to witness this conversation. “Oh my _God_.”

Thankfully, the doorbell rings then, and James drops the knife onto the granite countertop. He’s already halfway out of the kitchen before either of them can say another word, desperate to get away from this conversation. “That’ll be Remus and Peter,” he says over his shoulder. “My only true friends, besides Mateo.”

“You’re _rude_ ,” Sirius calls after him.

James takes his time walking to the door to let his friends in. Remus, in a very Remus fashion, has brought a chocolate cake which he is quite excited to eat, until he remembers that he can’t. (Fucking football. It’s probably not even worth it.)

James is deliberately slow as he makes his way back to the kitchen with them. He asks Remus about the train ride over from Cambridge (“The same as usual?”) and how school is going (“I need a break.”). He asks Peter about his job at Sleakeazy (“Really good!” – this in a high-pitched voice, because he’s lying. James knows he hates it, but is too polite to say so because it’s his father’s company and James had gotten him the job.). All this in hopes that Sirius and his mother will have moved on to a new conversation when he returns.

As soon as James returns to the kitchen with Remus and Peter, Euphemia says, “Hello, boys. Remus dear, are James and Sirius having sex at their flat?”

Remus very nearly drops the cake, but he manages to steady himself in time and places it on the counter. He glances between his friends (James: mortified, exasperated. Sirius: amused, as always.), then stares at Euphemia, who waits expectantly. He looks rather uncomfortable, unsure of what he’s walked into. “I don’t… um. You mean like, with… with each other?”

James can see how Remus may have misinterpreted his mother’s wording. He can see that the abrupt and inappropriate question has made Remus flustered, it’s all very understandable - but he still yells at the mental image and covers his face with his hands.

Euphemia sighs and ignores James’ dramatics. “Sex of any kind.”

“Uh, well… if I had to venture a guess…”

“You  _don’t_ ,” James assures him.

“I would guess yes, they are. Not with each other, though.” A pause. “That I know of.”

Damn him, Remus is a traitor too. Peter, who has just stood quiet and wide eyed the entire time, is evidently his only trustworthy friend.

“Absolutely not with each other,” James confirms.

“Why do you looks so bothered?” Sirius demands. “You should be so lucky!”

“I honestly don’t know what this conversation is or how we got here. Please end it now, I want to eat dinner and then never see any of you again.”

x.x.x.x.x

Thankfully, as the boys help set the table and then sit down to eat, the conversation shifts away from what James does in his bedroom to talk of the upcoming match. This turns out to be only slightly more bearable – James is already so nervous, if he hadn’t exhausted himself in training that afternoon, he wouldn’t be able to stomach any food. As it is, he needs to refuel enough that he piles an obscene amount of food onto his plate.

“Aguado told me to show up expecting to play,” James is telling them now. He’d skipped over the incident with Coleman, which he’d all but forgotten about after leaving Aguado’s office. (It would only worry his mother and get Sirius worked up. The last thing anybody needs is one of Sirius’ Twitter rants.) Despite the nerves, James can barely contain his excitement.

“Aren’t you a sub for this match?” Remus asks.

James nods. “But he’s guaranteeing me some play time. I think I’ve done well enough for him to trust that I’ll at the very least not screw them up, and he wants to test me under high stakes.”

“That’s huge, James! This the best. Now Lily is _definitely_ going to see you play,” Sirius says, a wide grin taking over his face. James rolls his eyes, but he can’t help smiling. Sirius looks almost more excited than he feels.

“I’m proud of you, honey,” his mother says, that warm smile lighting up her face. James’ heart swells. Maybe it makes him a mama’s boy, he doesn’t care – he lives to make Euphemia proud. Her smile falters a little, a question appearing in here eyes. James knows where it’s going, and wants her to stop, but he doesn’t speak soon enough and she asks it. “Have you told your father yet?”

A dense sort of silence falls over the table as his friends all stop eating. James determinedly keeps cutting his chicken, if a little aggressively. “You know I haven’t.”

Of course he hasn’t. And why should he have? Fleamont Potter is not interested in his son’s achievements, not if they involve football.

“You should invite him,” his mother urges.

“Why? He won’t come.”

“He might.”

“He _won’t._ ” Now James stops eating too, glaring at his mother. Why did she have to ruin a perfectly good evening with this?

“You should invite him anyways. You haven’t even spoken to him since Christmas, James. He’s your father.”

“Exactly. Saturday is the biggest chance I’ve ever been given, I can’t think about anything else. Least of all the father I haven’t seen in over a month and why he didn’t come or, on the off chance that he does, the fact that he’s watching me. I don’t want him there, mum.”

Euphemia sighs, and gives a tired nod. “Alright, honey. It’s your decision. I just wish you two would try to fix things.”

The Potters have always been a tight knit family, and James has always been close to both of his parents. Being their only child, born late enough in life to have been a happy shock, they have always doted on him. James has never wanted for his parents’ love and support, has never wanted something they didn’t give him. Until a year ago, when James had definitively made the decision to pursue football and give up a future at his father’s company, they had both supported his every dream.

Now, he can count the number of conversations he’s had with his father in the past year on one hand, and none have been particularly pleasant. It’s a sore spot for him, but seeing how upset Euphemia is now reminds him of how hard the rift has been on her, too. Her husband and her son not speaking has thoroughly upended her blissful life, and he knows she misses the three of them and Sirius spending proper time together.

James sighs heavily. Only for her. “Alright I… I’ll think about it, mum.”

Euphemia smiles. “That’s all I ask.”

 

* * *

 

 In her two weeks of working at The Rabbit Hole, Lily Evans has not had to deal with a lineup alone. Customers come and go throughout the day, but rarely are there more at once than she can manage. Her first Friday and Saturday evening shifts had been busy as people tried to find a bar ( _any_ bar), but that was an anticipated crowd and she’d had help. Unfortunately, today there seems to be some sort of event going on nearby, and the trickle of crowd leaving has resulted in a larger than usual lineup on what should have been a quiet Thursday morning. Lily is overwhelmed.

Almost two weeks into the job, she has figured out the cash register and knows how to use all the equipment and appliances. She (technically) knows how to make all the drinks (poorly), too. But she is still new enough that things take her a little bit longer than the other employees. Time that self-important Londoners pretend they don’t have, as an excuse to be rude.

So far this morning, Lily has been yelled at on three separate occasions, and has barely stopped herself from spitting in their drinks. And if one more person snaps at her for being too slow or too clumsy or not good enough at making some stupid drink, she’s afraid she’ll lose her cool and cuss them out – or worse, start crying. She had come in to work already tired from a long night of schoolwork, anticipating a quiet shift. Now, she can hardly contain her scowl as she hears the door open again, signalling another addition to the too long lineup.

“What is the matter with you, have you never made a smoothie before?” The current jerk in front of her snaps as she fumbles with the blender. He’s a forty-something year old man with mean little eyes (as most of the rude customers are), wearing a pristine suit and too much gel in his hair. Lily’s shoulders stiffen, but she tries to force a smile. She’s still new and she needs this job, she reminds herself. She can’t yell at customers.

“Sorry, it’ll just be a minute,” she says through gritted teeth. Hair Gel huffs an annoyed sigh and screws up his brutish face, making a point of showing his irritation.

It’s barely been another twenty seconds when he quite loudly says, “Hurry the hell up! God, who hired you?” Lily stops what she’s doing and looks up at him – this may just be the worst customer to come in today. The customers nearby shift uncomfortably, their eyes anywhere but on her.

“Excuse me?” Lily says, stunned at his behaviour.

“I said, who hired you? I have someplace to be,” he snaps, doubling down on his rudeness. That’s about as much as Lily can take. She imagines dumping the smoothie on his greasy hair. Her fingers twitch towards the plastic cup, but she stops herself, deciding a few choice words will have to do – but she doesn’t get the chance to speak.

“Shouldn’t have stopped for a smoothie if you were in such a hurry, then,” a curt voice says from near the back of the line. Lily’s eyes snap towards James at the same time as Hair Gel’s. He’s alone today, dressed in dark jeans and a blue hoodie under his coat. His hair is still messy in that careless, charming way that she’d admired last week, but it’s damp today. Lily notes the bag slung over his shoulder and concludes that he must have come from the gym. God, did he have to be attractive and nice _and_ a healthy, productive human being?

The truth is, she would have been grateful for anyone who stood up for her in that moment, but it’s the fact that it’s James that brings the smile to her face. She’s relieved to see a familiar and friendly face, and she’s elated that it’s his in particular. Lily would be hard pressed to admit it to anyone, but James’ face has scarcely left her mind since she met him last Thursday.

“Mind your own business,” Hair Gel yells back, and Lily remembers where she is.

“Mind your manners first, you dick.” Hair Gel looks positively scandalized by the language, sputtering angrily, but James only steps out of line and stalks towards him. “Can’t you see she’s working alone?”

“That’s not my problem,” Hair Gel says, his face red.

“And where you need to be isn’t her problem, but you still felt it necessary to make it known that you’re too busy to be a decent human being.”

Hair Gel looks like his head might blow right off his shoulders in an explosion of steam. He looks completely beside himself – evidently, he has never been spoken to like this by a young person before. “This is unacceptable! I want to speak to the manager.”

“She’s in Prague. What are you gonna do, tell on me?” James challenges. Hair Gel just looks completely stunned, now (finally) at a loss for words. Behind him, Lily puts the lid on his finished drink. “Your smoothie’s done, you berk. I thought you had _someplace to be?”_

Hair Gel whips around to face Lily, who pushes the now finished drink towards him, not bothering to supress her amused grin. He grabs the drink with unnecessary force, the contents squeezing out of the straw hole at the top, then turns back around to stare furiously at James. James only raises his eyebrows. “Well? Get on with it, you’re holding up the line. These people have _someplace to be._ ” That earns him a few appreciative chuckles from the customers in line.

Looking affronted and muttering furiously about disrespectful youths, and obviously trying to convey with his aggressive walk just how angry and disrespected he feels, Hair Gel finally storms out the door. Lily lets out a relieved breath. “Thank you.”

“No problem. That just really riled me up, I feel like I could literally eat someone alive right now.” James drops his bag to the floor as Lily laughs, and shrugs out of his coat. He settles onto one of the stools at the bar, and in a move that Lily finds unbearably adorable, he swivels to face the remaining customers.

x.x.x.x.x

James sits at the bar, scrolling through his phone while Lily works through the lineup. He’s here alone this morning – Sirius has schoolwork to catch up on, and knowing their weekend will be occupied by James’ match and the aftermath that follows, he’ll likely be spending the rest of his day cooped up at the flat. Though he appreciates the lack of ranting about the trek over, James rather misses Sirius’ company during their Thursday Ritual, and has promised to bring back coffee and donuts.

The rest of the line moves faster, and without incident – possibly because, though he doesn’t bother Lily while she works, James does look up to glare at anyone who starts to get testy with her. Given her swift retribution for Sirius’ behaviour, he’s sure she can handle herself. But today she seems a little overwhelmed, and _he_ doesn’t have to worry about a job if he snaps at someone. Besides, he’s not entirely pleased that these people have interrupted what he expected to be a quiet Thursday morning.

It’s about twenty minutes later when the lineup finally ends, and James finally orders his cappuccino and a double chocolate donut – a rare treat that he feels he deserves, seeing as he’s already worked out today and it’s Thursday morning.

“Genevieve seriously needs to hire more people,” Lily sighs, leaning against the counter once she slides his drink across to him.

“You can be rude back to them, you know. She won’t care. She’ll probably even encourage it.” He takes a sip of the drink. It’s better than last week’s sad attempt. Next week it might even be good, and that’s something to look forward to.

“I just started. I think I need to work here a while longer before I can start cussing out customers. Establish myself as good and sane before the outbursts of rage, you know?”

James chuckles. “Solid strategy. I guess I’ll just have to do it for you in the meantime.”

Lily smiles at him. “You didn’t have to do that. I was going to dump the smoothie on his head.”

“You were not. Establish your sanity before outbursts of rage? You said that literally three seconds ago.”

“Well, I thought it. And I deliberately put in twice as much kale as I should have, and some broccoli when he wasn’t looking. I bet it tastes like shit,” Lily admits proudly, which earns her a surprised, appreciative laugh from James.

“So besides that, how do you like working here?”

“It’s nice. Free coffee and pastries is never a bad thing. And usually it’s relatively quiet, so I actually get some studying done in between customers. As far as shitty part-time jobs go, it’s pretty ideal.”

“What are you studying?” James asks with genuine interest.

“Bioengineering at Imperial.”

James raises an eyebrow, impressed. “Wow. So you’re like… really smart, then.” It’s almost unfair, really, for someone to be so pretty _and_ smart. There should be a rule against it. It’s a good thing for him, though, because a crush doesn’t matter if someone is out of your league.

Lily grins and shrugs modestly. She’s nonchalant, but James knows Imperial is the best uni there is for engineering. He’s not trying to flatter her, he already knows she has to be incredibly smart to be studying there. “I like to think I am, but we’ll see at the end of term,” she says. “What about you?”

“Me? No, I’m not _that_ smart,” he jokes.

Lily laughs. “I mean, are you a student too?”

“Oh, no. I took the year to figure out what I want to do.” It’s sort of true. He had given himself the year to see if he could really do the football thing. And it had been a pretty good year, all things considered.

“And did you?”

“Yes, I think so.” Lily waits expectantly for him to continue. Of course the natural expectation is that he’ll tell her what he’s decided, and it’s a good time to casually mention he’s decided to be a professional football player. But then she’ll remember all the nonsense he said last week, and realize he’s an idiot, and ask him to never speak to her again, please and thank you. She’s going to be an _engineer,_ she’s far too smart to put up with a fool like him. And James rather likes talking to her. If she’ll never speak to him again after Saturday anyways, why not just enjoy talking to her today?

When he doesn’t continue, Lily takes the hint and drops it. “Well, good for you. It’s smart to take your time figuring things out.”

“I know! That’s what I tell everyone. Like what if I gave into the pressure and decided to just study accounting or something, and then a year later I’m miserable and out £9,000 and have to start over?”

“Excellent point. You don’t strike me as the accounting type.”

“Okay. Sirius and I always order in from this one Chinese place because they have the best dumplings in London and we’re too lazy to walk fifteen minutes to get there, right?”

Lily smiles in amusement, obviously not sure where James is going with the sudden change of topic but nodding along anyways. “Right, of course. Go on.”

“And the delivery guy, his name is Ben and his dad owns the place, so he has to work there on the weekends. He always takes _forever_. It takes him like forty minutes even when Rick, the guy on the phone, says it’ll be no more than thirty. Even though, as I said, the place is fifteen minutes away!”

“Fucking _Ben_ ,” Lily sighs sympathetically.

“What is he even doing, right? How could it possibly take that long? It’s like four minutes away on a bike! Ben has a fucking bike, Lily.”

“He has a _bike_ and it takes him _forty minutes_ to make a _four-minute_ ride? Get it together, Ben!” James smiles at Lily’s mock exasperation.

“One time I ordered before I got home, because you know, I was just that hungry. And I’m driving up the street, and I see Ben standing by his bike two blocks from our flat, smoking weed.”

“ _No!_ On the job?” Lily slaps the bar. “Come on, Ben!”

“I know! So now we know that Ben takes forever because he stops to smoke weed on the way. Worst delivery guy ever, right?”

“Among the worst, definitely.”

“And do you know what, Lily?”

Lily grins, sensing that he’s coming to the end of his story now. “What?”

“I _still_ tip him generously, because saying ‘keep the change!’ is easier than having to count it. So yeah, you’re right. I could never be an accountant.”

Lily stares at him for a moment, as if to determine how serious he is (completely). And then she bursts out laughing.

x.x.x.x.x

James is good company. The way he talks to Lily – as though they’re good friends – makes her forget that she actually only met him last week.

They go from talking about his aversion to counting change (“I mean I guess I _could_ if it really came down to it, but the effort!”)  to arguing about the real best Chinese food in London (Lily maintains it’s the cleverly named “Chinese Food” near her flat and James is prepared to die – his actual words – defending Ben’s father’s place, Lee’s Garden), to discussing their favourite Kingdom of Ashes movie (“The third one,” James insists. “It’s when they really lean into just how bad they are, and sort of embrace it, you know?”).

Lily had mentioned that she watched the adaptations of Genevieve Wallace’s books for the first time on the weekend, after James had mentioned he loves them. As soon as she’d said it, Lily wished she could take it back – how weird is it to tell a guy you just met that you wasted hours watching four movies just because he mentioned liking them? But James had grinned enthusiastically, and now here they are, discussing the morality of a fictional war between dwarves and giants.

“The dwarves had _no right_ to march into foreign lands like that,” he’s saying now, his face animated. He leans forward and talks with his hands when he’s excited, like right now.

“They were taking back what was rightfully theirs!”

“Um, no!” James is evidently very passionate about these books. “They lost it in battle. They made that law themselves and used it to their advantage on several occasions. They can’t just change it when they lose. They uprooted innocent people!”

“Yes, but their lands were _sacred_ , it’s different than the ones they took over. Their ties to the land are stronger.”

“Oh my _God_. I can’t believe you’re on the dwarves’ side in this,” he sighs, dismayed. “I guess all people have their flaws after all.”

Lily’s lips twitch. The hidden compliment in there does not escape her notice, and it makes her stomach flutter a little. “I feel like maybe you take these books a little too seriously.”

“I feel like maybe you don’t take them seriously enough, Lily.”

Lily laughs again. She’s laughed a lot this morning. “You sit here and think about what a nerd you are, I’m gonna go make another round.”

“I am not a nerd. I’m very cool, as you already know.”

Lily pats his arm as she walks out from behind the bar and towards one of the customers sitting at a nearby table. There’s a few lounging about with their coffees, laptops out or reading books off the shelves. Lily smiles as she offers them refills and asks if there’s anything else she can get them – it’s easy to be friendly now, her mood significantly lifted since the morning.

She glances up at James, sipping on a smoothie, as she writes another order down. He’s probably the main reason for her cheery mood, and as silly as she feels, she knows that when he gets up to go, the rest of her shift is going to feel longer and duller than if he’d never come in at all. She’s in the process of reminding herself of how busy she is – she hardly has time to sleep in between school and work, and she wants to start doing some proper research as soon as possible, which means she needs to impress her professors and can’t get distracted by charming boys with messy hair – when he glances up from his phone and catches her looking. It’s too late for her to look away, but once again, he alleviates the awkwardness by giving her an easy smile and turning back to his phone. He has _such_ a nice smile. Lily holds back a sigh and starts over. _No time for charming boys with messy hair and really nice smiles._

But when she gets back behind the counter to serve another customer who has just walked in, it’s not very long at all before she realizes all her efforts are for nothing.

“Have a nice day!” she says with exaggerated cheer as she hands the customer his coffee. He calls a hurried “You too!” over his shoulder and leaves the shop as Lily walks back towards James, the artificial smile shifting to a real one.

James looks thoughtful. “I’m guessing like, middle management, tech related job at a midrange company, has two kids. One of them is probably named George.”

“How do you figure that?” They’ve been playing this game all morning, taking turns putting stories to the customers. James has even gone over to some of the ones who’ve stayed in to confirm their suspicions – and been startlingly accurate about a couple of them. (She doesn’t know anybody else with the nerve to ask an elderly man if he’d had a secret love affair with a married woman in Paris during his youth. She doesn’t know anybody else who could respond with a casual “Well that’s too bad, Frank. You’ve still got time,” when the elderly man had been appropriately shocked at the false accusation.)

“He’s a thirty-something with bags under his eyes who ordered an extra-large coffee and no food at noon,” James explains about their current subject. “Young and tired and evidently busy enough to be fighting for something, probably a promotion. Too drained to not have kids. He was wearing fitted clothes, a plaid shirt and a skinny tie. Average style. But his shoes and belt don’t match, so he’s faking it to fit in. Which makes me think it’s a growing company in a field interesting to younger people. As for George… I dunno, that’s just a hunch.”

Lily shakes her head, looking up from her phone. “Unbelievable. I just googled the name of the company on his ID card, it’s a growing, midrange online hosting company.”

 James lets out a triumphant _whoop_ , and grins at her. “I told you I’m an excellent judge of character. I’m winning by like five points now, by the way.”

“You’re an excellent judge of people’s outward appearance, not character. Also, you’re keeping track?”

“Of course I am! I don’t play games to lose.” James glances at the time on his phone. “I should head out and let you get back to your job now. It’s lunchtime, you’ll probably be busy soon.”

Lily nods, hoping her disappointment isn’t too obvious. His phone dings and James smiles slightly as he reads the text, picking it up to reply – it’s probably one of his seven gorgeous girlfriends or something – and Lily can’t look away. He’s so nice, and so nice to look at. He’s so unlike anybody she’s ever met. His hair has dried now, and though she’d spotted him trying to flatten it a couple of times, it’s still chaotic. It suits him, she thinks.

x.x.x.x.x

When James looks up from replying to Sirius’ text (complaining about homework, as usual), Lily is watching him, her eyes travelling up his face and to his hair. They stay there for a long while. James shifts nervously under her scrutiny, suddenly aware of what a mess his hair must be after his shower at the gym. He pushes his glasses up his nose and she follows the movement with her eyes. God, she’s so fit, and she was so cool and calm while he’d rambled on for ages (about dwarves! And fucking Ben! God, he’s an idiot.), and she’s not at all shy about checking him out, and that just makes her even more attractive. He’s so distracted by her looking at him, he’s forgotten what they were talking about.

“What?” He finally asks, the nerves taking over.

Lily blinks at him, as though he’d just pulled her out of a deep thought. “What?”

“Why are you staring at me?”

“Did you come here from the gym?” she asks, then clamps her mouth shut, her cheeks turning pink. She takes a step back from the bar.

James’ lips twitch. So perhaps she’s a little bit nervous, too. What an exciting thought. “Er, yes?”

“Only because… well, your hair was damp and um, you had the bag so…” she trails off, the pink of her cheeks deepening. Lily quickly turns around and starts rearranging the teas, just like she’d done last week.

“You’re very perceptive.”

“You’re very… healthy.”

James’ can’t help the chuckle that escapes him. “Thank you.”

Lily groans. “Oh my God. What am I rambling about? You’re a customer.” She turns back around to face him, still red. “I’m sorry. It’s not my business where you came from or how healthy you are.”

James thinks they’re probably friends now, after spending an hour chatting about dwarves and extramarital affairs. But maybe she’s just polite? He gives her a playful smile anyways. “Do you comment on all of your customers’ health? Or are you just trying to flirt with me?”

“Oh my God.” She covers her face with her hands. Her nails are painted a vibrant yellow.

“It’s very nice of you to notice. I do work hard on my health, you know,” he continues. Lily groans, but drops her hands, a smile tugging at her lips now.

“Any chance you’ll let this go soon?”

“Can you also comment on how muscular and fit I am?”

“I can’t tell through the hoodie. I’ll just imagine you’re hiding your flab under there.”

James raises an eyebrow. “You’re imagining me under my hoodie?”

“Well I am now!” Lily huffs, throwing him a glare. If she had been starting to calm down, it’s all gone now, her face is burning.

James laughs, a happy sound. “What do I look like?”

“Not flabby,” she says crossly.

“I can confirm your suspicions, if you want,” James says, his smile suggestive. Lily’s eyes widen just slightly, and James realizes what he’s saying. Has he just offered to _strip_ for her? Or… something else? Now she’ll think he’s a liar and a fool _and_ a pervert. She could report him for harassment, and he would deserve it. She could have him arrested, and it would probably be for the best and they would all be better off.

James swallows, and starts pushing up the sleeves of his hoodie. It’s cold outside, but it suddenly feels very hot inside. She follows the movement with her eyes, and he freezes halfway. He’s getting ready to apologize, but then she licks her lips, and he can’t take his eyes off them now. He wants to kiss her. The thought is sudden, but once it’s there, it’s loud and persistent. He wants to kiss her _so_ bad.

Suddenly, the door opens behind them. Lily jumps back from the bar, startled, at the same time that James jumps at the sound and almost falls off the stool. He grips the edge of the bar to steady himself, and Lily clears her throat. “I should get back to work,” she says quickly, moving towards the register as the customer walks in.

“Right. Of course.” James gets up and picks his coat and gym bag up off the floor. God, he’s such an idiot. “I’m _so_ sorry. That was… I didn’t mean to… that was inappropriate.” He’s rambling again. He’s trying to avoid looking at her again. (Just in case he jumps over the bar to kiss her. He wouldn’t put it past himself, that would be quite on brand for him.)

“James?” He looks up. Is that the first time she’s said his name? The sound of it on her lips makes his heart stutter. Lily’s face is flushed. “I’ll see you on Saturday?”  

He smiles at her, forcing a calm he doesn’t feel, and nods. “See you, Lily.”

Heart thundering in his ears, blood thrumming through his veins, James turns around and gets the hell out of there, feeling like he’s just played a full ninety minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please come chat with me on tumblr! I'm moonawrites there and on twitter!
> 
> Also, shoutout to @beaubcxton for being so lovely and enthusiastic about the first chapter. I appreciate it!  
> 


	3. Nervous, rookie?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took forever, because life and school, and I'm so sorry. But it's here now, all 17,000+ words of it, and I hope you love it. I am so so excited for you guys to read this because I've been dying to write this chapter since I came up with the idea for this story over the summer! Please let me know what you think!

**Chapter 3: Nervous, rookie?**

 “James.” That’s how his father answers the phone.

Fleamont Potter’s tone is as terse and professional over the phone as it is in person. Before that fight six months ago, even after Sleakeazy had changed him for good, there was still a layer of warmth in his voice when he spoke to James. Now, it only holds a question. _What is this about?_

James takes a breath, wishing he didn’t feel stung by the indifference. It has been three months since they’ve spoken. The last time he saw his father was last month – and that was through the telly, sitting on his couch in London while Fleamont sat on a Business Leaders panel in New York.

“Hi, Dad.” When Fleamont doesn’t speak, after a moment he adds, “How are you?”

“I’m well. How are you?”

“Uh… good. I’m good.” Fleamont hates it when people _um_ and _uh_ , he admonishes James for it regularly. Prepared, put together men do not _um_ and _uh_. James mentally scolds himself for the slip up, but his father doesn’t comment on it this time.

“Is everything alright, son?” A hint of concern now. Of course, he thinks James wouldn’t call unless something was wrong. It’s a perfectly reasonable assumption.

James feels a tightening in his throat. _We haven’t talked in months, of course everything’s not alright._ “Yeah, yeah. Everything’s fine.”

There is a prolonged, awkward silence. It hangs thick in the air around James, and he wonders if his father feels how suffocating it is too. James tries to think of something to fill it with, but nothing seems appropriate. There’s too much tension between them to talk about anything personal. Fleamont doesn’t participate in idle chatter anymore. And James’ life revolves around his football - he _knows_ Fleamont doesn’t want to talk about that. They’ll have to at some point, football is why he’s called. But it’s best to ease into that conversation.

“I’m glad you called,” Fleamont says after a while. James hardly has time to feel the tentative, wary surge of hope or happiness or something before his father adds, “I wanted to remind you, your car’s MOT certificate is due for renewal soon.” James feels a little deflated anyways. 

“I know. I did it last week. No issues.”

“Good. Did Sirius?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Another heavy silence. Whenever he tries to speak to his father and runs only into stubborn quiet, James remembers being a kid wearing Spiderman pajamas, dad sitting next to him on his twin sized bed, two hours deep into a story about the adventures he’d had when he’d backpacked across Europe in his twenties. These memories, bathed in the warm light of the bedside lamp in his childhood room, feature a Fleamont who wore colourful flannels and untidy hair, who spoke to James with a fondness reserved only for him, who smiled often and was always on the verge of laughter. James feels the sudden, childish, ferocious urge to throw his phone across the room.

“Is that all you wanted to say?” James asks, an edge creeping into his voice. How about, _why haven’t you talked to me in months?_ How about, _I’m so sorry for putting down your dream and shutting you out._ How about, _I miss you, son?_

“Yes. Did you call for something specific? I have a meeting to get to.”

James almost says no. Almost hangs up. He’d thought this would go differently. He’d thought his father would be happy to hear from him. He’d thought they would have a tense at first but then pleasant conversation, and then he would bring up his match, and maybe it would be awkward, but it would turn out okay because at the end of the day, he’s still his father and he’d still be proud.

He almost tells Fleamont no, go to your meeting, I have nothing to say to you. But it’s still his father and he still wants him to be proud and if there’s any chance… “Yeah, actually.”

Fleamont waits for James to continue. God, why is he this nervous to talk to his own father? Fleamont sighs into the phone. “Well?” he urges impatiently.

“I’m playing in a league match against United,” James finally blurts. “Um, with the fist team, I mean.” His father always loved watching Chelsea play against Manchester United – but that was the Fleamont of colourful flannels, not tailored suits and cropped hair. A Fleamont who wouldn’t mind James saying _um_ again.

A beat. Then, “Oh. Well, good for you.”

It’s not the excitement James wants. It’s not the heartfelt _congratulations, son! I’m so proud of you!_ he craves. It’s monotone and impersonal, but it’s not _I don’t care about your football, stop wasting my time…_ and perhaps that’s progress.

“Do you want to come?” James asks. That’s the phrasing he’s decided on after hours of deliberation, pacing his living room with his phone in hand, running through a million different variations on this conversation. This, he decided, was the right way to go about it – it lets him know James has thought of him, would not mind his presence. But it’s not an outright invitation, the onus remains fully on his father to decide he wants to be there. It doesn’t escape him, the strangeness of fretting like this over inviting his father, who had never missed a primary school play, to an important event.

Fleamont answers with silence. This silence is not just thick and uncomfortable. This silence is like needles pricking every inch of his skin. This silence hurts him. _It really fucking hurts him._ Because this silence shouldn’t be there. It should be an instant _yes, of course I want to come!_

Finally, after the silence has gone on for quite as long as he can bear, James speaks again. “Never mind. I just… wanted to let you know.” He hates that he sounds like a scolded child.

Maybe his father picks up on how hurt he is, because he offers up an excuse. “I have meetings, James. That’s all it is.”

“Really? Because you didn’t ask me when it is. And I didn’t ask you for an explanation.”

James hangs up.

x.x.x.x.x

That had been six months ago.

It’s the memory of that silence like needles on his skin that makes James finally put his phone down. It’s the sudden, uncomfortably vivid reminder of the hurt that had choked him for days afterwards. It puts a swift end to the debate he’s been having with himself since Wednesday night.

Perhaps his father would like to be there this time. Perhaps he would be thrilled at the invitation this time. But this time, he doesn’t deserve it.

 

* * *

 

“Nervous, rookie?”

James grins up at Amar as the Chelsea captain flops down onto the couch beside him. “What, like I didn’t kick your arse in training today?”

“ _Wow._ Someone’s already getting a big head.” Amar turns to face him, solemn as Aguado after a rough training day. “That’s what I’ve come to talk to you about, Potter. Your ego is getting out of hand.”

For a split second, James thinks he’s serious, and his smile starts to slip. But he catches the twitch in Amar’s mouth and snorts, shoving him away. “Shut up, you have not.”

It’s Friday evening and, as is Aguado’s tradition for the night before a big match, he’s having the team stay at a hotel together – even though this one is a home game.

If James could choose how to spend the night before a match like this, he’d be at his flat, binge watching bad sitcoms with Sirius, Remus and Peter right now. Remus would talk shit about the show and Sirius would talk shit about James’ healthy snacks and Peter would talk shit about Martha from work and James would talk shit about all of them and it would be exactly the kind of relaxed, zero energy night he craves when he is this stressed. But he’ll admit it – hanging out in a penthouse suite at the Berkeley, with his teammates who he still can’t quite believe are his teammates, is not exactly what James would call a bad night.

Amar chuckles. “Seriously though, are you nervous?”

“Um, I might vomit on you at any moment. So make of that what you will.”

“You’ll be fine. If you vomit on me, I might really kick your arse. But aside from that, you’ll be fine.”

“You have to tell me that, you’ve been forced to take me under your wing.”

“Captain letting the youth team star follow him around is a good PR moment, I won’t lie. YouTube loves it. But I don’t have to do anything. I don’t have to speak to you at all off camera. And if I didn’t really think you were going to be fine, I certainly wouldn’t have to tell you. I do because it’s true, you’re a fantastic footballer, and you’re ready to play with the big kids.”

James means to let out a breath, but it comes out as a nervous laugh. “Well, thanks. But I might only play ten seconds and I’m _still_ nervous.”

“Aguado wouldn’t put you on the lineup for a match this important if he wasn’t completely confident in your abilities. Everyone on the squad is.”

At this, James glances across the room at Michael Coleman, who is lining up his shot at the pool table. This morning, he’d offered James a frosty and forced apology in the dressing room before training –  and had not spoken a word to him since. “Not everyone.”

Amar follows his gaze, and snorts. “You can’t be serious, mate.”

James frowns at him. “What?”

“For someone with such a big head, you actually don’t have any idea how good you are, do you?”

James shifts, a little nervous, a little uncomfortable – a little overwhelmed. He’s used to feedback, both negative and positive. He’s used to praise. But he’s still not used to hearing it from people like Samuel Aguado, or Amar Hussain. James has watched matches at Stamford Bridge wearing a shirt with Amar’s name on it. He’s arguably one of the best midfielders in the league, he’s an icon – and now he’s James’ teammate, his friend, sitting next to him and telling him how good he is. Once again, James feels the silly urge to pinch himself. “I mean… I don’t…? What do you mean I don’t know how good I am? I’m a youth player, playing with the first team. I know I’m good. Ego problem, remember? You’re here to tell me off?”

“Stop nervous rambling at me, Potter. You don’t understand what I mean. When I say _everyone_ on the squad knows how good you are, I do mean everyone.” He nods at Coleman. “You’re fresh out of the academy and playing with the first team, you’re Aguado’s personal project – and then you go back to your youth and U23 teammates. Don’t tell me you don’t recognize jealousy when you see it.”

James stares at him. “Excuse me? Are you trying to tell me _Michael fucking Coleman_ is jealous of _me_?” Saying it out loud makes it that much more absurd, and James starts to laugh. But Amar is dead serious.

“Shocking, I know. He thinks the world sprouted out of his arsehole and Chelsea F.C. was founded just for him, but he’s losing his mind over an eighteen-year-old kid.”

“That’s a pretty stunning misinterpretation of someone’s dislike, I have to say.”

Amar sighs. “Shut up, you’re so irritating. I’m trying to be _encouraging.”_

James smiles sheepishly. “Sorry, go on and sing my praises.”

Amar rolls his eyes, but he’s earnest when he speaks. “I still remember the first time you ever trained with us, Potter. Actually, I think all of us do. We were expecting some scrawny sixteen-year-old, taking wild shots and tripping over the ball. We got a scrawny sixteen-year-old who made us fucking _work,_ it was embarrassing _._ Like you owned the pitch. You were so controlled, so fast, and so _smart_. I knew instantly.”

There’s that feeling again. Overwhelmed doesn’t begin to cover it. “Knew what?”

“Why all the coaches kept talking about you. Why Aguado was so interested in you. Why execs cared so much about a sixteen-year-old academy kid – you know how this club is, we rarely keep academy players. Well we came to see the FA Youth Cup final that year, and anyone could have picked you out in a second, you were leagues ahead of every other player on the pitch.”

James smiles at the memory. That had been one of those shining moments in time that transcended far above the rest of reality, a day he will not soon forget. He’d played an incredible match and gotten to speak to Aguado and hang out with all his Chelsea heroes after. It may even have been that particular match that put him on the radar outside of Chelsea. “I scored a hat trick.”

Amar nods. “Everyone saw it then. You weren’t good for a sixteen-year-old. You were just good. Kind of unnervingly good, actually. I felt like I was watching the next Messi or something, and now people actually say that about you. This match tomorrow, it’s been a long time coming for you. Believe me, you’re prepared. You have been for a long time.”

James drags a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what to say, mate. Thank you.”

Amar claps him on the shoulder. “Sometimes people just need to hear that sort of thing out loud, yeah?”

James nods. It’s true, sometimes people do need to hear reassurance and encouragement out loud – and Amar is always the one to say it. Amar always seems to know exactly the right thing to say, the right memory to call to the forefront of his mind. He isn’t just an excellent footballer, he is a genuinely kind person. One with a level of understanding of other people that James rarely sees in anyone, especially in this profession. This is the reason Amar is their Captain, why he’s so beloved by Chelsea fans and every other football fan alike.

“My ego is adequately inflated, thanks.”

Amar laughs. “And one more thing – don’t let Coleman get to you. I can’t say anything about his game, he’s fucking good. But I know he’s not the easiest person to get along with, and especially when it comes to you – with the way that people have started to talk about you, and knowing you’re negotiating a new contract right now –”

“What?”

“Don’t be coy, we’re all in the same business, we know how these things go. You’re negotiating a new contract, obviously a permanent promotion to the first team comes with that, it’s already well overdue. You both play so similarly, and you’re very good. I guess it’s fair for him to wonder how you’ll share play time.”

“Huh. I mean he didn’t have to try to crack my ribs but yeah, I guess so.”

“Can’t argue with that.” Amar gets up. “Now stop overthinking yourself to death, we might need you tomorrow. Try to have fun.”

James gets off the couch too. “Can I tell you something?”

“What?”

“I’m better at pool than Coleman, and I’ve never wanted anything more in my entire life than to show him that, right now.”

Amar lets out a laugh, loud enough for some of the other guys to look their way. He stares at him, looking somewhere between amused and exasperated. “You’re really something else, Potter.”

 

* * *

 

The night before the Chelsea vs. Arsenal match, Lily has the evening off work and has already finished about as much homework as she’d planned to get done on a Friday. In her pajamas and ready with a bowl of popcorn, she’s looking forward to a night of binge-watching sitcoms with her friends and observing with mild amusement as Marlene spends an inordinate amount of time reading up on player stats and analyzing the lineups that Football Twitter (apparently that’s a thing?) has predicted. They won’t know the official lineup until the morning of the match, but some people are devoid enough of purpose and happiness in their own lives to spend their time hypothesizing. They’re usually startlingly accurate too, Lily has learned.

Lily had met Marlene McKinnon at a mixer for incoming Imperial students last summer, and the two had instantly connected over their dislike of organized social events. Both had already been sold on Imperial and didn’t feel the need to hear from current students yet again, and neither thought it likely that they would make any lasting connections at an event with stick on nametags and group icebreakers. But Marlene’s parents had insisted she go to meet new people and get a better feel for the place, and Lily’s father had thought the same.

It had been something of a colossal success, since hey had met each other. The two of them had spent the evening enjoying the free refreshments and talking about Game of Thrones after Lily complimented Marlene’s House Stark phone case. Eventually, they’d stumbled upon the realization that they had perfectly corresponding dilemmas: Marlene needed roommates, and Lily and her secondary school best friend, Mary McDonald, needed an apartment.

Mary would be going to UCL, but they had both agreed to find a place together – a piece of home and familiarity would be nice to have in a new city. They’d had grand plans for their new independent lives, having their own flat in _London_ and exploring that marvelous wonder of a city. The only problem? Everything in London was _so fucking expensive_. The plan had been to move to the city as soon as they could, they’d need jobs and time to settle in. But it had been well into the summer then, and they had yet to find a place that was both affordable and also not a complete dumpster.

Meeting Marlene had been a stroke of dumb luck – her mum was a realtor and had helped her find a decent place, and Mary and Lily had gone with them to see it the following weekend. It wasn’t a luxury suite by any means, but it was nice enough, it was clean, and it was a reasonable distance from both UCL and Imperial. The larger of the two bedrooms was big enough for Lily and Mary to share, and the rent spit accordingly made the place affordable. And in the process, they had come across what Lily instantly knew would be a lifelong friendship.

Since then, Lily (and more reluctantly, Mary) has discovered quite a few things about the world of Football, of which Marlene is a dedicated fan. For example, the fans take it very personally when their favourite players are “under-valued” by their club, whether that means benching them or under paying them. (How a salary in the millions could possibly be considered as “too low” by people who are probably near broke students like herself is still beyond her understanding). She has also learned that there are more team and player rivalries than she cares to keep track of. Marlene had spat out the name of a former Chelsea player who had left to move to a rival team as though it was the filthiest of swearwords – and Marlene knew _plenty_ of filthy swearwords. She had to, lest she run out of things to scream at their TV.

Lily is used to it now. Her football obsession is just one of Marlene’s many charms – like how she leaves homework until the night before it’s due and then has breakdowns but never learns from it, or how she picks the chocolate chips out of chocolate chip cookies but refuses to buy cookies without chocolate chips. Lily has even become a casual fan by acquaintance – when there’s a match on TV and nothing else to do anyways, it’s hard not to get drawn in by her friend’s loud enthusiasm. She’s not quite to the point of caring _that_ much, but she’s excited for the match tomorrow, too. They had gotten lucky with the tickets: Marlene’s father received them as a gift at work and passed them on to his daughter.

“Oh, Potter’s an interesting choice,” Marlene comments now, obviously having come across a tweet suggesting someone named Potter might be playing.

Lily knows some big names in football and has a cursory knowledge of the sport, as a lot of people tend to pick up from telly segments and conversation over the years. Since befriending Marlene, she’s even learned the names of some of Chelsea’s high-profile players, like Amar Hussain and Michael Coleman. She even knows their manager, Samuel Aguado, who according to Marlene is “a _legend_ and a _magician_ , a man who has used his _football genius_ to build the _strongest_ squad in the English Premier League and has _singlehandedly_ revived my team’s hopes for a Champion’s League trophy.” But Lily doesn’t know every player, and she’s not particularly interested besides.

It’s enough for her to know that the Champion’s League is the ultimate competition in European club football, a tournament between the best teams from every league for the most important trophy besides maybe the World Cup. She’s happy to know that tomorrow is the second leg of the quarter finals between Marlene’s Chelsea and rival team Arsenal, and that they absolutely need to win, or Marlene will die, because that makes it all very exciting. She may not personally care about Chelsea or Arsenal, but she’d like to see her friend survive the year. But Lily doesn’t need the name of every player on the list.

Still, Marlene listens to her ramble about every obscure film or television show she digs up, so Lily returns the favour when it’s an exciting time in football. She hums in acknowledgement, tossing some popcorn into her mouth. She doesn’t know a Potter, but she’s sure she’ll hear all about him soon enough.

“I mean he’s good,” Marlene continues, “But he’s technically still a youth team player.”

“I thought this game was like, super important. Why would they play a kid?” Mary asks from her spot laying on their couch, a bowl of crisps balanced on her stomach as she flips through her Netflix recommendations. Mary doesn’t get as much of a thrill from the actual sport as Marlene and occasionally Lily do, but she does have an odd fascination with the behind the scenes. (“It’s all just like politics. Or celebrity drama. It’s so _fun!”_ had been her reasoning, which made some sense to Lily – Mary did get most of her news from Stephen Colbert.)

“He’s _technically_ a youth player, but he plays with the under-23s more often and this season, with the first team quite a lot. Usually in league games, though. He’s very good, especially for his age. I just don’t know if he’s experienced enough for tomorrow,” Marlene says. “But if Aguado called him up, it’s for a reason. That man is a God, he doesn’t make mistakes. And Potter might surprise everyone, he _is_ undoubtedly the best youth player in Europe.”

“If he’s so good, and he plays with them anyways, why isn’t he on the first team?” Lily asks.

“Dunno, honestly. A lot of clubs are interested in him and we don’t wanna lose him. People say he’s going to be the next big thing in football, and I can totally see it. I mean he’s literally our age, and he’s _so_ good,” Marlene says, putting down her phone and sitting up on her knees now. Even if it is about a sport she only passively likes, Marlene’s enthusiasm makes Lily smile. It’s cute, how much she loves talking about football – the way some people love Lord of the Rings, or their children. “But apparently, up until last year, he had some sort of commitment issues.”

“What, like missing games and stuff?” Mary asks, abandoning her search for something new to watch and settling on an episode of Brooklyn Nine-Nine for the sixteenth time, as she often does. “Sounds like a dick.”

“No, like he wasn’t sure if he was gonna stay at Chelsea or even keep playing football. That’s why he didn’t get a first team promotion, even though he was probably good enough even then.”

Mary pops a crisp into her mouth and raises an eyebrow. “He’s that good and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to play?”

“Apparently he wanted to go to uni or something equally dull. I mean nobody cared about this back then, but since he started playing for the first team more often and people saw how good he is, they dug up his entire history.”

“That’s creepy,” Lily says, wrinkling her nose. Another thing she’s discovered about the world of football: fans often forget the players are people with lives, not robots wearing their favourite team’s shirt. They could get extremely invasive and, in the event of a poor performance, extremely mean. Not Marlene, thankfully. But enough of Football Twitter to keep her off that ugly corner of the internet for good.

“Why would someone who can play a sport well enough to play professionally want to go to uni instead?” Mary asks furiously, as though the act is a personal attack on her. “It’s fucking miserable, I’d do anything to have a talent I could make money off of instead. And then there’s this prick Potter, almost throwing his away. I hate ungrateful people.”

Marlene laughs. “Right? He’s made up his mind now, through. Plus, he’s turning nineteen and his contract expires soon. If he wants to stay at Chelsea, he’s definitely going to get promoted to the first team before next season. And if not, they’ll want to sell him before he’s a free agent and they lose out on making money off him.”

“You know so much about all these people. It’s so weird,” Lily says.

“I’m being a responsible fan! I like to know who our prospects are. Besides, every Chelsea fan knows about Potter, he’s like a football prodigy and Aguado loves him, and now there’s a possibility of him leaving.”

“What you should be is a responsible _student_ ,” Mary cuts in. “Don’t you have two quizzes on Monday?”

“Yes. On Monday. That’s what Sundays are for.”

“You have work on Sunday,” Lily reminds her. “And Mary’s right. If you have another meltdown, this time I’m gonna kick your sorry arse. I’m not coddling you anymore.”

“Stop it, I’m already stressed!”

“About the quizzes, or the match?” Lily teases.

“I’m doing what you taught me, Lily. One thing at a time. First the match, then when we’re through to the semis, I can worry about quizzes.”

“That’s… not exactly what I meant,” Lily sighs. That had been advice Lily gave Marlene the last time she’d procrastinated to the point of a breakdown, the night before several due dates and quizzes: Calm down, do one thing at a time. She had a feeling her friend would be in the same place again on Sunday night.

“Hey!” Mary interjects, sitting up suddenly, the boredom on her face giving way to an excited grin as she turns from Marlene to Lily, officially finished with their current topic. “Speaking of this fucking match – _for the millionth time now –_ did you see the cute boy you met at work again?” Marlene turns to Lily with interest too, all thoughts of Potter forgotten.

Though she tries to fight it, the thought of James brings a smile to Lily’s face – her friends laugh at the failed effort, and again Lily wishes she hadn’t mentioned James to them at all. As it is, after that first day, she’d casually told them she met a cute boy and that he and his friend were going to the match too. And then she’d gushed over James – all but declared her love for him, like a complete idiot, if she was being honest – after work on Thursday. She hadn’t _meant_ to, she just wanted to tell her friends how funny it was when he asked an old man about having an affair in Paris, and it had all gone downhill from there. “No. I think he only comes in on Thursday, maybe that’s when he’s off work.”

“You said he’s coming to the match tomorrow, right? How are you supposed to meet him?” Marlene asks. “You never got his number, and failed to offer yours, because you’re daft and because this boy has obviously done something to you.”

“Um… right. I hadn’t thought of that.” Lily frowns. “Sirius said they’d be easy to find? I don’t know.”

Marlene laughs at that. “There’s going to be tens of thousands of people there!”

“I don’t know,” Lily says again, and shrugs. “I think they were just making polite conversation. Like oh yeah, we’re going too, maybe we’ll see you there! Who actually means stuff like that, you know?”

Mary laughs. “Oh, honey. You look so disappointed. But he said he’d see you, and if he’s as nice as you made him sound, I’m sure he meant it.”

“Or maybe it was just _see you_. That’s not really a commitment. It’s like _later_ or _bye_. Just something you say when you leave, right? If he meant _see you_ like _I’ll see you on Saturday_ , he would have told me when and where, or at least given me a way to contact him. I mean _I_ asked if I’d see him on Saturday, and he just nodded and said _see you_. If he really wanted to see me, he would have given me his number, right? He just didn’t want to be rude, so he was like, see you, and then he left. He was just trying to avoid being rude. Which is totally fine.” Lily clamps her mouth shut, her face turning red as she realizes she’d been senselessly rambling for a good long while. God, what is wrong with her? She never gets like this, least of all over a boy. Least of all over a boy she barely knows.

“ _Wow_ ,” Marlene laughs, she and Mary both looking far too amused. “I have never heard you say so many words so fast.”

“I hope he’s really cute enough to justify that,” Mary adds. “You really like him, huh?”

“I mean, no. I hardly know him. He’s just cute!” Lily’s voice sounds a little high pitched, even to her own ears.

Mary snorts. “ _Okay._ Well, if his friend was being serious and they are easy to spot, then cool, you can introduce us to this magical boy that’s fried your brain. Otherwise, whatever. If he’s not interested in _you_ , he’s probably too dumb for you anyways.”

“Or maybe he’s as far gone as you, and like you, he just didn’t think to ask for your number. Worst case, you’ll see him next Thursday anyways,” Marlene, always helpful, suggests.

“It’s not a big deal either way, honestly. He’s just a guy, and I don’t really know him,” Lily insists. But that’s just it, isn’t it? She feels like she does know him, as silly as it is.

If her friends have more to say, they know Lily well enough to keep it to themselves when she focuses back on the TV – the topic is closed.

But even as she keeps her eyes fixed on the TV, Lily’s not hearing anything. As she had again and again since it happened on Thursday, she finds herself thinking about that moment, just before James had left.

If it hadn’t been for that moment, she might believe what she had just told her friends. She might believe that he was only being polite, and let the whole thing go. But Lily is sure something happened between them – the way he had looked at her, the way he had gotten jittery and nervous despite being an obviously confident guy – she’s sure she hadn’t imagined that.

Maybe Marlene is right, and he had just been as flustered as she was. Maybe he’s been thinking about that moment nonstop too, playing every bit of their conversation back again and again like it’s his favourite movie, just like she has been. Maybe he is as eager to see her tomorrow as she is to see him, and maybe he’s kicking himself for not getting her number too.

Either way, Lily decides there’s no point in thinking about it. She has better things to do, bigger things to worry about than a boy she’s only just met, even if she does feel like they’ve been friends for ages already. She’s going to have a great time with her friends at the match tomorrow whether she sees James there or not.

 _You’re better than this,_ she scolds herself _. Stop acting like a preteen with a stupid crush_. But God, does she feel like a preteen with a stupid crush.

  

* * *

 

On Saturday morning, James wakes up before his alarm goes off. He lays in bed, silent and unmoving, watching the early morning light filter in through the translucent white curtains of his hotel room. In these quiet few moments before his day begins, he feels still and calm. As soon as he steps out of bed, he’ll feel the nerves, and he’ll feel them until the match is over, win or lose. And then he’ll be either devastated or elated. But right now, he just watches the sun through his windows, savouring these last few minutes of calm.

At exactly 7:17 AM, Fergie’s voice rings out through the room.

_Let’s get it started, in heeeeeere…_

James sits up and gets out of bed. It’s like his body is waiting for this movement before telling his brain: _Okay, I’m awake. Now fuck me up._

The nerves hit instantly. He feels it in the pit of his stomach, in the tips of his fingers.

But James has done this enough times now to know how to deal with it. It’s never been quite as important, quite as big as this day is. But he knows what to do.

_Let’s get it started, let’s get it started in heeeere..._

God, what an anthem. Clichés become clichés for a reason, and this iconic anthem is proof of that. Is there a more inspirational group than the Black Eyed Peas? Not in this generation. (Match Day James is such a prick, and he knows it, but he doesn’t care. Match Day James _wins_ , and that’s all that matters).

James doesn’t have to meet the team for breakfast for another two hours, so when Let’s Get It Started ends, he plays his Match Day playlist and heads into the shower. What better way to start his day than to sing Bad Blood (the Kendrick Lamar version, thank you very much) at the top of his lungs under scalding hot water? Fucking Arsenal has no idea what’s coming. Don’t they know, if he has a vengeful Taylor Swift on his side, they don’t stand a chance? What fools!

Twenty-five minutes later, he’s halfway to a prune and passionately singing “ _This is ten percent luck, twenty percent skill, fifteen percent concentrated power of will – ”_ when he’s interrupted by his phone ringing. Right on time.

James turns off the water, wraps a towel around his waist, and answers the phone on the final ring.

“Good, you haven’t slept in,” Sirius says by way of greeting.

“I haven’t slept in since I was fifteen, get a grip.”

“How do you feel?”

“Excited. Haven’t thrown up yet. So far, so good.”

There’s some commotion in the background, Sirius yelling at someone to shut up, and then, “Fine! You’re on speaker.”

“Hi James, good luck today!” That’s Peter’s voice.

James grins. “Thanks Pete!”

“Tell Michael Coleman I said hi.”

Sirius sighs in annoyance. “Come _on_ , Pete. We hate Coleman, remember?”

“I thought we were over it!”

“Why would we be over it?”

“Because he scored the winning goal last week.”

“Who cares?”

“Um, we’re all Chelsea fans, aren’t we?”

“Yes, because _James_ plays for Chelsea, and Coleman hates James, therefore, we hate Coleman. Honestly Pete, keep up.”

“Well I disagree, but fine, tell Michael Coleman I said fuck you.”

James chuckles happily. Is there a better sound than his idiot friends bickering over hating people who hate him? “Sure, Pete. Is Remus here yet?”

“No, he’s meeting us at the stadium. Mum too,” Sirius says.

“Okay. I’ll see you guys after the match, then.”

“Yeah. And it better not be as a loser.” No match day could truly begin without Sirius vaguely threatening him.

James rolls his eyes. “Encouraging as always. Thanks, mate.”

“You’re welcome. But good luck for real, I’m going to cry if we don’t win the Champion’s League this year and – ”

“Thanks, bye!” and James hangs up.

He hits play again.

_Jumpman, Jumpman, Jumpman, them boys up to something…_

x.x.x.x.x

“Hi, mummy.”

There’s a smile in Euphemia’s voice. “Hello, James. How do you feel?”

“Nervous.”

“You’ll be fantastic, like you always are.”

“You’re only saying that because you birthed me.”

“You could say ‘because you’re my mother’ like a normal child, you know.”

“It’s match day, mother. It calls for drama.”

“What _doesn’t_ call for drama where you’re concerned?”

“I did not call you to be criticized, mother. I called to be doted upon and praised.”

“I tried. Then you said the word _birthed._ ”

“Sorry. I’m ready for my praise now.”

“You’ve worked hard, and you’ve earned Samuel Aguado’s confidence for a reason. You’re going to be fine.” Euphemia pauses. “And I didn’t _birth_ a loser.”

“That is true. Will you still love me if I lose?”

“No. Good luck, darling.”

James sighs, but he’s smiling. “Thank you, mother.”

He hits play.

_I got, I got, I got, I got, loyalty, got royalty inside my DNA…_

x.x.x.x.x

James has his headphones in all through breakfast. On the bus ride to Stamford Bridge with the team. As they wave to cheering fans waiting outside the stadium. As he changes into a warm up kit.

He knows it’s silly, but James starts every match warming up in the shirt he wore for his very first match with the first team. When it had started to wear out, his old number 23 beginning to fade, he’d been told he couldn’t wear it anymore. PR didn’t want a Chelsea player ever seen in a worn-out shirt, even during warm up. But he’d insisted on keeping it, claimed he _needed_ it. He had gotten away with just having the number reprinted, because luckily, silly superstitions and pre-match rituals are accepted in sport.

He has his headphones in as they warm up – fans are already starting to fill up the seats, and it’s best for him not to hear anything. He needs to focus, he doesn’t have the doughtiness of some of his teammates quite yet.

He knows Sirius, Remus, and Peter have arrived when out of the corner of his eye, he spots a big blue banner with his face on it – thankfully an appropriate picture, probably because his mother is with them. All four of them are wearing Chelsea shirts customized with his name and his number 17, though his shirt isn’t sold in the official shop yet – he’s not officially a first team player. He can _feel_ his heart swell at the sight. He doesn’t know what he’s ever done to deserve friends like them or a mother like his, but he wants to make them proud to be the first people to wear his shirt at Stamford Bridge. James waves at them, then gets back to his warm up, that thought carrying him through to the start of the match.

And then, there’s only the match.

 

* * *

 

Lily has never been to a proper football match before. She had been to her school team’s matches, and seen some local teams play for charity events. But she has never seen top tier teams play in person before.

She understands the appeal even before the match begins.

Outside the stadium, it feels like a festival. There are performers and vendors and music and people dressed up, a palpable energy hanging in the air. But _inside_ , it is like nothing she’s ever seen before. Most of the stadium is dressed in Chelsea’s blue, being that the match is at Chelsea’s stadium, but there is a sea of red in the away fans section.

Fans had already been chanting when Lily and her friends had arrived, synchronized claps and shouts of _CHELSEA, CHELSEA, CHELSEA_ ringing through the stadium. One entire section of seats is covered in a massive banner with the Chelsea crest and _PRIDE OF LONDON_ written on it. Fans wave flags as they chant and sing and stomp and clap - and that’s all before the players have even walked out.

The walkout itself is a production. There is music and flags and _flames_ , the chanting and clapping reaching a deafening volume as each team’s starting eleven walks out onto the pitch. Lily finds herself melting into the frenzy, clapping and chanting along with Marlene. Even Mary can’t ignore the energy in the stadium.

Lily had laughed, and Mary had groaned as Marlene had reiterated again the importance of the match on the underground – but she understands now, how every single person here knows that this match is everything. That in this moment, this match is the most important thing in the world.

And then the game begins. Every bit of energy is now tension, now tangible, forty thousand people all desperate for a win.

x.x.x.x.x

“HOW IS THAT NOT AT LEAST A YELLOW, YOU WORTHLESS HEAP OF WASTED FLESH,” Marlene is screaming next to Lily. Her voice is drowned out by the roar of furious Chelsea fans, but Lily ducks her head anyways. Marlene’s commentary is helpful and entertaining for people like her and Mary, who don’t know how to spot an offside and aren’t sure why sometimes the ball gets thrown in from the corner, but it’s also embarrassing in moments like this. This time, her wrath is directed at the referee, who is refusing to card the Arsenal player who just (apparently) fouled a Chelsea player Lily also doesn’t know the name of. Lily, personally, can’t be sure – she had just seen two men running for the ball and one of them falling, but the blue side of the stadium is quite decided.

On the pitch, players are arguing with the referee, who Lily feels quite sorry for. Honestly, he’s only doing his job. One player is starting to get a little too worked up, ready to get up in the ref’s face, but Amar Hussain, who Lily recognizes from magazine covers and TV spots, holds him back. He’s wearing the captain armband, and Lily knows you can get carded for harassing a referee. _Good captaining, Hussain,_ she thinks. _You’re very cute._

Eventually, the commotion settles and play resumes. Mary sighs in disappointment. “I was hoping for a fist fight.”

Lily laughs, but she understands the frustration the fans are feeling. The score is tied 1-1. It has been for a while now, and everyone is on edge.

x.x.x.x.x

“The first half has a huge impact on how the rest of the match goes,” Marlene is explaining to them some time later, scandalized by Lily insisting there’s still plenty of time to go, even if there is only a few minutes left in the first half. “If we score now, we’re all set for – holy shit holy shit holy shit it’s going to happen, he’s going to score!”

Michael Coleman, another player Lily recognizes, is making his way up the pitch, weaving through red clad players. Another chant begins on their side of the crowd – Lily can’t make out all the words, but she hears “ _COLEMAN, HE’S WORTH FOUR MEN”_ and more “ _CHELSEA, CHELSEA, CHELSEA”._ It’s kind of amazing to her, how tens of thousands of people can suddenly start singing and clapping in sync, their excitement absolutely contagious.

There’s a collective groan on the blue side of the stadium and cheering from the smaller red section as the Arsenal goalie blocks his shot and kicks the ball off their side. Another Chelsea player is shouting something at Coleman – Lily is too far away to make out what he says, but listening closely and watching his lips, she thinks Coleman tells him to “ _Shut up and play football.”_

Mary nudges her. “Did you see that? Number 8 was right there, Coleman could have passed to him. I think that’s what they’re pissed about. FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT!”

The fans in front of them turn around to glare at her, but Lily doesn’t have time to apologize – so quickly it takes everyone by surprise, Oni (an Arsenal player Lily recognizes from their national team – that’s three already, look at her go!) has the ball and gets past Chelsea’s defense like they’re not even there. He takes a crazy shot from way out – so hard, Lily winces at the loud _crack_ of his foot hitting the ball – and the Arsenal fans erupt into chaos as the ball hits the back of Chelsea’s goal. Oni runs to the corner of the field, falling to his knees in celebration. His teammates pile on top of him, elation on all of their faces.

Lily understands after that, how the first half might decide the second. She vaguely remembers the match James had been watching on the day she met him, the commentator saying Levinson’s equalizer would change the course of the match. It had – his team had played better in the second half and had ultimately won. (So far, she has not seen James or Sirius. So it had just been a polite _maybe we’ll see you there_ , and that’s fine. She’s having fun anyways. Really.)

Now, though they try to keep up the atmosphere, the fans are deflated. And the Chelsea players… exhausted after more than forty minutes of play and deflated after a tie-breaking goal by the other team, seem to just be waiting for time to run out.

 

* * *

 

The Chelsea dressing room at halftime is possibly the most stressful environment James has ever been in, and he lived with Fleamont Potter for eighteen years.

Once, James had sat in his father’s office, awkward and embarrassed, as an impromptu meeting had broken out when an executive had walked in to share some unpleasant news: Katy Perry, one of their brand ambassadors, had been caught on camera saying she was allergic to a Sleakeazy product and hated a new collection that she had done adverts for. His father had been furious – at the news, that he had been interrupted, that an issue so trivial had been brought to him at all, as if it was his problem to deal with – and he had not been shy about that fact. James had never seen grown men look so flustered.

This is maybe not quite as dramatic in the grand scheme of things – there have been many halftime conversations while they’ve been the losing side. But this is one of the more important matches, and the _most_ important James has ever personally been a part of, and so it is the most stressful.

Aguado is furious, too – mostly at the way their defense had fallen apart towards the end of the half, but the rest of them aren’t spared, either. They needed to tie 1-1 at the very least to make it through – now they need two goals in the second half, and that’s if they can keep Arsenal from scoring again.

“You looked like a bunch of school boys, sulking about the pitch like those men just took your lunch money. You are _professionals_. When we’re winning, we play to win. When we’re tied, we play to win. When we’re losing, _we play to win_ , understand?”

There’s mumbled agreement from the players. James is almost glad he hasn’t played yet.

“Williams, I’m pulling you back. Their three-one at the front is running circles around our defense – I need you closer to the back, close out the gap when they’re attacking and move up when they’re defending,” Aguado continues, now working on correcting where they had been lacking.

“And someone tell Coleman he’s not the only man on the pitch, yeah?” Jordi Price throws in. There are some chuckles from the other players, and James can’t help his grin, but Coleman doesn’t look pleased.

“If you could score a goal, I’d have passed to you,” Coleman snaps.

“And how many have you scored today, Mikey?” Price fires back.

“ _Enough_ ,” Amar shouts over them both.

Aguado rubs at his eyes, muttering under his breath. “Children, honestly.” Then he fixes the two with a look James would not want to be on the receiving end of. “Price, stay between Coleman and Hussain, you work best there. When they search for you, they need to know where to look. And Coleman, the next time you take a bad shot instead of making a decent pass, you’re coming off. Now are you ready to play like men, or not?”

Amar jumps up on a bench. “CHELSEA!”

The team yells back “CHELSEA!” in unison, and James feels a chill run through him. He still, _still_ , can’t believe he’s a part of this.

“This is the Champion’s League. Let’s get out there and play like champions!” Amar yells, and the team’s chants of _CHELSEA! CHELSEA!_ carry them back out to the pitch, where the fans take over.

As the second half kicks off, the fans are re-energized, and their chants vibrate through him. James is more desperate to play than ever. This is the only part about playing on the first team that he doesn’t like: he always starts on the bench. He understands, of course. He knows it’ll take some time to make starting lineup – at the very least, he’ll need a permanent spot on the first team to begin with – but he’s still restless while he waits.

Restless from watching, restless from sitting still… restless because, if he’s being honest, he thinks he can do better. He thinks he can _help_. Arsenal’s 4-2-3-1 is clever, their attack and midfield melding together seamlessly while their striker never strays too far from the goal. But he’s noticing how Gerard always strays a little too far left, a little too far up – to act as a channel to Oni, of course – but it’s the perfect opening if someone were tricky enough, quick enough to take it...

“What do you see, Potter?” Aguado asks him.

James glances at him, a little startled at the question. He’s too restless to sit in his seat anymore, constantly wandering up to the sidelines. But so far, Aguado has been solely focused on the players on the pitch. What had he noticed about him that made him ask?

James points at Gerard. “Him. I’m seeing how… wait for it… see? Look at the space he leaves, between himself and Garcia when they shift to defense.”

“Hm. And?”

“I can get in there. I’m the only one fast enough.” _Let me play, let me play, let me fucking play._

Aguado nods. “But not yet.”

James sighs impatiently, but he doesn’t argue.

x.x.x.x.x

“ _God dammit, Coleman,”_ James mumbles under his breath. Coleman is world class, but sometimes he makes it difficult to see. It’s almost ridiculous, but sometimes, he’s _too_ good on his own. He expects everyone else to keep up with him, doesn’t give enough cues for the others to follow, then gets frustrated when a play falls through. He’s tried the same move twice now, but he should have seen it the first time – if he pushes Miller too far up, he can’t get back out of the web of defenders fast enough.

“What did you see that they didn’t?” Aguado asks him again.

“If he crossed while Miller was in front of Collins and Jones, he would have had time to slip past before they closed in. He waited too long – I mean this usually works, but I think they’re anticipating his move this time and close in too fast.”

“How do you see things like that so quickly, Potter?”

James shrugs, and answer honestly: “I don’t know. I just do.”

“Get ready to go on,” Aguado says. “You’re subbing on for Coleman.”

James’ stomach lurches. “What? _Now?”_

Aguado raises an eyebrow at him. “Do you not want to play?”

“No! I mean, yes, of course I do. I just wasn’t expecting – okay. I’m… okay.” James clamps his mouth shut. Aguado gives him one of his rare smiles and claps him on the back as he walks back to his seat to fix his boots and pull off his jacket. It’s barely fifteen minutes into the half – he’s going to have a full thirty minutes, at least. He had expected to be a last-minute substitution, a last-ditch effort to see if he could make a difference in a stagnant match. Maybe ten minutes at most. But this… he’s stunned.

The February air is cold, a shock against his skin as he pulls off his jacket, but James appreciates it in the moment. It pulls him out of his daze, grounds him as Aguado starts giving him instructions. “…front and center when there’s a corner. Use the space Gerard and Garcia leave. Work with Amar, you know how to communicate with him. And keep on top of that transition when you need to play defensively.”

James nods, bouncing on his feet. At some point, Aguado must have requested the substitution, but James misses it. A too short moment later – _fuck, is he even ready? Shut up. Of course you’re ready –_ he sees a furious Coleman coming towards him. He hears his name announced to the stadium – _Number 17, James Potter –_ vaguely registers his face on the screens at either end of the stadium as he waits to go on, watches as his ecstatic friends finally hold up their banner, jumping up and down. It doesn’t surprise him when Coleman shoves past him instead of high-fiving him as he comes off the pitch, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care what Coleman is yelling behind him, he only cares that it’s the Champion’s League quarter-finals and they’re losing 2-1 to Arsenal at Stamford Bridge and he’s wearing a Chelsea shirt with his name on it and he’s going to _play_.

James steps onto the pitch.

In the years to come, he will look back on this moment as the one that changed his life forever.

 

* * *

 

“That’s him.”

Lily watches, stunned, as Number 17 runs onto the pitch. He isn’t wearing his glasses, and he doesn’t have that ever present smile on his face – but it’s undoubtedly him, chaotic hair and sharp jawline and perfect forearms and all.

“Who?” Mary asks, watching him on the screen at the end of the stadium. “I take back what I said about Potter being an ungrateful prick, by the way. He’s cute as fuck.”

“That’s _him!_ ” Lily says again. “James. _My_ James!”

Marlene stares at her. “Coffee Shop James?” Her eyes widen as Lily nods. “Coffee Shop James is _James Potter?_ Why the hell didn’t you tell me!?”

“I didn’t know! I didn’t know who James Potter was until right now, and I didn’t know Coffee Shop James’ name was Potter.”

Mary points at some seats right by the pitch. “I’m guessing those are his friends?”

Lily follows Mary’s gaze and spots a giant banner with James’ face on it. She can’t make out their faces from this far, but she thinks the tall, dark haired one in the middle might be Sirius.

“I can’t believe this. You’re going to date a footballer! A _Chelsea_ footballer!” Marlene is all but squealing.

Lily balks at that. “Says _who?”_

“Says me. Lily, _please_. Do it for _me.”_

“Um, I told him I hate football players the first time I met him.” Suddenly, James and Sirius’ odd behaviour that day makes sense. She’d told a professional football player that she hated professional football players, that they were overpaid and did nothing but kick a ball around and… Lily groans.

“You did _what?”_ Marlene grabs Lily’s shoulders. _“_ Why would you do that?”

Mary is cackling. Really _cackling_. “ _Of course_ you did. Why wouldn’t you rant to a stranger about hating football players?” She grins widely at Lily. “And why wouldn’t that stranger turn out to be one himself?” She laughs again, clearly thrilled. “That is so like you. Your life is hilarious.”

“Shut up! No wonder the poor guy wouldn’t tell me what he did… I insulted his profession as soon as I met him.”

“We can deal with your stupidity later,” Marlene cuts in, turning her attention back to the match. Lily turns back to the match too, now with renewed interest.

In a word, James Potter is… _electric._ Lily would have followed only him regardless – she knows herself, and she knows that with James out there, she can’t even pretend she cares about any other player, who is she even trying to kid? – but as soon as he joins the game, it starts to revolve around him.

Coffee Shop James is bright and confident and funny and sweet – but football player James Potter is intense and fast and focused and she’s not even a huge football fan but watching him play makes her heart race. His movements are quick and sharp and fluid. Even to her untrained eye, he’s skilled beyond his years, and if Marlene hadn’t told her last night that he is a youth player – still only _eighteen, holy shit –_ she would never guess it. James Potter is _electric._

He picks up on his teammates’ cues instantly, meeting each of their movements with one of his own. He spots gaps Lily would never think to look for and zips through them at lightning speed. He seems perfectly aware of everything and everyone around him, so confident in the way he plays, it’s breathtaking. Marlene had called him a prodigy – Lily gets it instantly, why he’s considered the best youth player in Europe, why other clubs already want him. She hears it in the hum of the revived Chelsea crowd, sees it in their interest and excitement at the new addition – they had been disappointed to see Coleman go, but he’s forgotten now, because it’s so so _obvious –_ they know this boy is special.

 

* * *

 

It’s about fifteen minutes after he subs on when he gets another opening.

He’s been trying to make use of the gaps he’d spotted from the bench, trying to remember the movements he’d easily memorized as he watched, but it’s not quite the same when he’s actually on the pitch and has to keep the ball too.

He’s doing what he promised, though. He’s doing what the team needs, following their cues as he adjusts to the game. So far, he’s just bridging the gap between Amar and Price, and lending his speed to their plays. He’d seen two openings, had tried two plays of his own – decent, smart if he’s going to pat himself on the back – but ultimately ineffective. He doesn’t get frustrated. He needs a few minutes to acclimate, to merge with the team and synchronize his play to the players around him, but time is limited, and the stakes are high, and he needs to be fast.

Now he’s comfortable. Now he knows what to do. Fifteen minutes in, he’s making a run up the pitch, fast and direct. He weaves through Arsenal players – their defence is falling apart around him. They had prepared for Coleman-Price-Miller. They had adjusted to Amar’s shifting position. But they don’t know what to do with him. He’s faster than all four of them, and what he lacks in the ease of play that comes from the years of experience Coleman has, he makes up for with a stunning new concept: unguarded willingness to cooperate with his teammates, because he remembers what Aguado said – just follow their cues, you don’t need to score.

Coming up on two players that he can’t get through as he nears the middle of Arsenal’s half, James considers his options in a split second. He can go around them and lose speed, or – he’s already passed to Jones instead, running behind the cluster of players as they disperse, some of them going for the ball and one of them trying to stay in his way. But James is faster, and he’s made it to the other side of the cluster just in time for Jones to pass back to him. There are too many players on his right, where he’d passed to Jones – and as he’d anticipated, not many on his left. James picks up speed, getting just close enough before Arsenal’s defenders have time to catch up – he makes a perfect cross to Amar, who is waiting right where he should be, just to the right of the penalty box.

Amar takes the shot. The stadium erupts.

He’s not sure what he’s yelling exactly but an elated sound rips out of James’ throat as he runs towards Amar, who runs to the corner as he celebrates his goal. Amar turns around and holds a hand up for James to slap his into as he reaches him. He grabs James’ face and hugs him as their other teammates make it to them, and then it’s just a mess of limbs and yelling he can’t make out and he has never felt excitement like this, never felt happiness like this, never felt adrenaline coursing through his veins quite like this.

They’ve done it, they’ve tied the match, and they’ve got fifteen minutes – it’s a _match_ again, they have a chance to win again, and _he helped make it happen_. James can’t quite believe it, an assist like that in a match like this is beyond what he could have expected, but _he’s done it_.

x.x.x.x.x

The game is different after that. James is different.

He thinks he may have performed some sort of rite of passage he hadn’t known about, because the way the other players on the pitch play with him now feels different. The way the crowd reacts when he touches the ball is different. After his assist, he’s earned some trust. Maybe even some respect. He feels new energy around him, as if it’s a living thing.

Fifteen minutes pass like it’s nothing. James has never played a match this intense, he’s exhausted and feels the pressure like a physical thing on his shoulders, but he keeps pushing. Four minutes of added time is all they have to win this – both sides fight for that final goal, Arsenal matching their every move, a constant push and pull between them. He hates to admit how evenly matched they are right now, wishing he could say Arsenal is weak enough for them to beat, no problem. But he knows too painfully well that it really is anybody’s game now.

 _It’s Chelsea’s game,_ he tells himself determinedly.

 _It’s_ my _game._

His first Champion’s League game, his most important game to date, and – he feels it in his gut – the game that’s going to change his life. Every great player, his every football icon, every legend – they’ve all had one, and this is his. He’s been fast, he’s been accurate, he’s been patient and clever and smart, he’s been _perfect._ He’s made some excellent plays, he’s already made a spectacular assist. He’s proven to his teammates and to Arsenal and everyone watching what he’s capable of. All things he knew he could do, if he trusted in his training and his skill and his gut, trusted that he could do it. And he knows something else: He can do more. He can win this. _This is my game._

He has never played a match like this, never been so nervous and felt so much pressure and still been this good. Nobody judges him harsher than he judges himself, and even he knows he’s been _yes, that good._ He remembers Amar’s words – _I felt like I was watching the next Messi_. He remembers Aguado’s in that interview – _I haven’t seen a player like him in a long time. He’s special._ And well, why can’t he be? Every one of the greats started like him – young and playing in a match that is bigger than them and proving to the world that they aren’t like all the rest.

_This is my game._

And it’s going to be the best damn game of his life if he dies to make it happen. A game Chelsea will never forget, Arsenal will never forget, and fuck it – _Europe_ will never forget.

In the end, James does not know whether it’s luck or skill or concentrated power of will.

He knows that he has the ball at his feet and half the pitch between him and the goal. He knows he has two minutes. He knows he wants this more than he has ever wanted anything. He knows that he knows how to play football and he is damn good at it. He knows Arsenal has no idea what’s coming when he eyes up his path and runs.

He hears his heart thundering in his ears. Hears the hum of the crowd, chants of CHELSEA reaching him as if from a great distance. He hears the shouts of the players on the pitch and the managers just off it. Attempting a solo goal now is risky and bold, but he has two minutes. Arsenal doesn’t know what to do with his speed and tricky footwork and clever plays and they won’t know what to do with him now as he thunders down the pitch, weaving through players. He’s a little bit farther from the goal than he’d like but if he keeps moving, he’ll lose his momentum trying to dodge defenders. They won’t have time to build up like this again, time is almost up, and this is it, this is their last chance and he has to take it, there’s nothing else for it.

Number 17, James Potter, strikes the ball. The crack of his foot against the ball is the only sound he hears. He looks up, feeling as if time has slowed around him. The ball soars over players’ heads as they swivel to follow its path. It curves just enough as it nears the goal post. It soars past the Arsenal goalkeeper’s outstretched arms. It finds its home in the back of the net.

James has never heard a sound like the one that erupts from the Chelsea fans in the stands at that moment. For a split second, he stands there in shock – but as the realization hits him – _he scored a goal, the winning goal –_  a surge of adrenaline shoots through him and he runs towards the edge of the pitch in blind excitement, not sure where he’s going, hoping if someone is in his way they’ll move because he’ll definitely plow them down, he can’t stop moving, what the hell has just happened and is that him yelling like a madman?

He’s at the edge of the stands, drowning in the crowd’s screams. They’re grabbing at him, the ecstatic fans all wanting to touch him, the man who scored the winner, and he’s vaguely aware of TV cameras and stadium security around him and the he turns around because _he has to keep moving and holy shit what the fuck what just happened is this his life_ and his teammates are running towards him and then he’s on the ground and buried in a pile of arms and legs and blue, everyone as stunned and overflowing with joy as he is because _holy shit they’ve done it. They’ve as good as won, they’re going to the semi finals._

There’s only a minute of time to waste when they finally return to the pitch to wait for the final whistle, but every person in the stadium knows they’ve won, and when the final whistle blows, the celebration only picks up where it left off. James forces himself to calm down, aware that people are watching him more than ever now, aware of TV cameras on him and his mum in the crowd – he definitely can’t embarrass her.

And then, a sudden and startling thought: Lily is here. For a brief second, he wonders if she’s mad that he lied or if she’s impressed or maybe she doesn’t care either way because she’s so fucking cool – but then he gets swept up in handshakes and people congratulating him. _Stay calm, stay professional, don’t do anything you would normally do, idiot_

It is the best moment of James’ life. The one that changes it forever.

 

* * *

 

The Rabbit Hole is relatively close to the stadium, and Lily doesn’t have much time to kill before her shift, so she opts to skip the post-match underground trip home and sticks around the area when her friends leave. Marlene has plans with her boyfriend and Mary has work, so they both leave to get ready, leaving Lily to entertain herself alone – and she’s relieved. She can’t handle anymore talk of James Potter than she has endured already.

It had taken ages to get out of the stadium. When the players had finally left the pitch and the fans had calmed down enough to move, they had started to make their way slowly – _excruciatingly slowly_ – out of the stadium. It had been complete chaos, and they were surrounded by fans still cheering and chanting, as they would be for the foreseeable future, but that hadn’t stopped Marlene.

“You have to introduce me to him,” she’d said for what must have been the hundredth time since James had stepped onto the pitch.

Lily had sighed with practiced patience. “As you’ve said several times now. I got it, Mars.”

“If you start dating him, we could probably meet the whole team.”

“Oh my God.”

“I’m gonna come to the Rabbit Hole on Thursday.”

“You have class Thursday mornings.”

“Yes, and?”

“Who’s to say he even wants to date her? As far as he knows, she’s a bitter football hater who rants at strangers,” Mary had interrupted, unhelpfully, as is her way.

“Oh my _God.”_ Lily had wanted to sink into the ground. And that’s when her phone had buzzed with a text from Genevieve Wallace that had sent her stomach fluttering and somersaulting:

_Hello Lily, I am still in Prague but James Potter is claiming that he knows you and wants your number. Did you in fact meet him? Are you okay with me giving it to him, or shall I kick his sorry arse instead? – Genie xx_

Lily had hesitated for a moment. She didn’t know how she felt about all of this just yet. She’d thought she met a cute boy at work, and they’d hit it off, and they were friends now, and she was definitely dealing with a fast-developing crush on him. He had awkwardly skirted around any talk of what he did, which was strange, but it was alright because they’d only just met. And then he’d turned out to be a professional football player, after proclaiming to dislike them, and she had no idea what that was all about, and her friend was pestering her to meet him and that was weird and it made her a little uneasy.

But there was something endearing about him contacting her manager in the midst of the aftermath of an incredible match, when he was sure to have had more pressing things to deal with than getting in touch with her. It answered her question of whether he’d meant see you or _see you_ , at any rate. And at the very least, she wanted to be able to apologize and clarify that she didn’t hate football or football players. So she messaged Genevieve back:

_Yes, I met him. You can give it to him._

It hadn’t been a long wait. A few minutes later, after she’d convinced Marlene that she wouldn’t be meeting him now and said goodbye to her friends, she was in the midst of googling places to eat nearby when her phone had buzzed again. And then again, several times in rapid succession.

**_hi its james_ **

**_(the handsome lad who is not a nerd)_ **

**_(from the rabbit hole)_ **

Already, Lily was smiling. As if she could forget him.

**_i asked genie for your # i hope that’s ok?_ **

**_i told her to ask u first so im assuming it is but if she didnt ask im so sorry im not trying to be a creep u can tell me to fuck off and i will_ **

**_its just that i said id see you after the match and like a proper idiot i never asked for ur # or told u where and when_ **

**_and u probably already left but in case ur waiting i wanted to tell u that i am a bit caught up with press rn but if ur up for it can i meet you at the rabbit hole or somewhere else later_ **

**_just wanna apologize if today caught u off guard or anything_ **

**_i am not a pathological liar or a jerk im just dumb_ **

**_wow i just texted u like 5 times sorry im going to stop now_ **

Lily couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her. God, he was cute. And he was definitely Coffee Shop James. She could hardly reconcile this nervous speed texter with the intense, completely self-assured guy who had just scored the winning goal in a huge match and worked the crowd like he owned it. He had casually mentioned doing press like that was normal, but he was definitely the James she had met, and in the moment, that felt oddly reassuring.

She had texted back quickly, not wanting to leave him worrying while he was busy. It wasn’t as if she needed to worry about coming off as eager, this guy had just contacted her manager for her number while people were undoubtedly fussing over him and wanting his attention, and then texted her… _how_ many times?

_Actually, you texted me 10 times. You really are bad at counting._

He’d taken a few minutes to text back.

**_see? told u im not a liar._ **

_Genie did ask. That was thoughtful of you. I’m going to work in a bit, there until 11 if you want to stop by?_

**_even after i texted u 10 times?? i’ll be there_ **

_See you then. Congrats on the match!_

**_thanks!!_ **

And then she’d pocketed her phone and pushed her way through the crowd, registering only that everyone in the chaotic thicket of blue clad fans was discussing the same thing: _Potter._

And now here she is, still thinking about him an hour later, sat in a café with a half-eaten sandwich and a cappuccino in front of her. She’s been reading the same line of her book again and again because she can’t focus on the words. Finally, she gives up and closes the kindle app. She tries to stop herself, has tried to convince herself that it’s better to talk to him first, but she can’t help it. She gives into the ugly temptation she’s been fighting since the moment the match ended, and before she has time to convince herself it’s stupid, Lily has typed _James Potter_ into the google search bar.

The first few results are articles about the match – shit, these people work fast. She scrolls past those, and past his Wikipedia page, choosing what looks like his profile on the Chelsea F.C. website. It seems like the least offensive option, because it’s related only to his job and that’s not a secret anymore.

The page starts with his stats (which Lily doesn’t completely understand but she’s sure they’re impressive), and his birthday and birthplace (March 27, 1998 in London, England, and knowing this makes her feel like she’s spying on him, so she scrolls past quickly). His profile describes him as a versatile forward who has been at the club since he was fourteen and lists a whole slew of achievements – goals he’s scored and trophies and awards he’s won with Chelsea’s academy and under-23 teams and England’s youth and under-21 teams, and there’s a whole list of records he’s already broken. But she doesn’t read past that. She can’t – she’s starting to feel the vague sense of unease solidify and settle in.

She doesn’t get it until she’s scrolling through Chelsea’s Instagram page a moment later. There’s a short video of him on their story, talking to a reporter as he holds a man of the match award. There’s a picture of him posing with it posted too, with hundreds of comments underneath it.

_“Legend in the making. What a match!”_

_“Move over Coleman, Potter’s arrived.”_

_“World class. Can’t wait to see more of him!”_

His own Instagram page has almost a hundred thousand followers, but she doesn’t linger on there. There’re pictures of him in his Chelsea kit, but most of them are just pictures of him with his friends, and it’s all starting to feel a little too invasive, so she closes the app. Her morbid curiosity carries her into the festering depths of Football Twitter next, and everyone is calling him Chelsea’s Lightning Bolt, and that’s about as much as she can take, because she’s suddenly realized that she’s spent a good half hour of her time stalking a guy online and that realization shakes her out of her stupor.

Lily has never done this before. Never obsessed over a boy like this before. She feels oddly lied to, even though she _knows_ she has no reason to. James barely knows her, he didn’t have to divulge anything to her. Even if, from the moment she met him, she’s been amazed at how well they get on, how easy he is to talk to, how much she _likes_ talking to him. How she’d felt like she knew him already when they’d only talked twice. But now she’s discovered a brand new part of him – the biggest part of him, probably. And she’s not sure she can get on with that part quite as well.

She doesn’t hate football or football players. That had just been a misunderstanding, one she’ll clear up quickly when she sees him later. That’s not it. What she hates is the unease in her gut at her own behaviour. Worrying about what he thinks of her, if he thinks she’s judgmental… if he thinks she’s good enough, now that he’s probably famous. And she knows he’s not like that, and _she_ is not like that, but she thinks it anyways, and that bothers her.

It’s not so much the realization that she had been one of forty-thousand people in the stadium, watching in awe as _he_ turned a match around, enraptured by this guy who is not even nineteen and already living out something spectacular. Or that he’s apparently the best youth player in Europe, destined to be a star, one of the lucky handful of people in the world who get to live a special life. She didn’t know any of this before, but James did, and he’d still been sweet and funny and nerdy, still nervously speed texted her, still thought about her in the aftermath of what had to be a special moment for him. He’s only out of reach if she lets her mind wander down that troubling path.

And that’s the core of it: her mind has wandered down that troubling path. She hardly knows James Potter, and he’s already taking over her thoughts, and it’s unnerving. She can’t let herself fall into this trap, can’t let herself invent insecurities and invite in a distraction this massive just because he has an adorable half smile and she loves his mess of hair and she’s never met anyone like him before.

Lily has a plan. Her plan is to become a biomedical engineer, to work towards medical solutions that will prevent anyone else from losing their mother as she had lost hers, suddenly and for a reason that just wasn’t good enough for the pain it caused. She’s going to work at the Rabbit Hole to afford her life in the city that will make that dream possible, she’s going to impress her professors so she can start researching as soon as possible, and she’s going to use every ounce of her focus and energy to do it.

A vague sense of disappointment replaces the unease, but it comes with a clarity that quiets the noise in Lily’s mind as she gets up to go to work. It comes with relief, because at least now she knows.

James Potter is not a part of her plan. If he’s got a good enough explanation for his odd behaviour, she’s happy to stay his friend if he’d like. But Lily knows with complete clarity now: her friend is all that he’s allowed to be.

 

* * *

 

 The rest of the day is a blur.

James is man of the match, and he can’t believe it. He doesn’t know how he keeps it together enough to do post-match interviews, and he takes pictures for social media, and there’s a post-match debrief with Aguado and the team but if he’s being honest, he remembers very little of what is said, by him or by anyone else. He’ll watch the game back on Monday in detail with his trainers anyways, they couldn’t have expected him to care then. The only thing going through his mind the entire time is AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH and that’s about it and he thinks that’s understandable.

When he finally, finally gets home from the stadium that afternoon, he carefully places his award on a shelf in his and Sirius’ shared living room, and his mates and his mum are all there, and they’re all so happy and so proud and his heart feels _so_ full.

It had felt like a surreal dream when he’d walked into the team celebration later and his teammates had chanted his name, cheered for him like he was a hero and – well, he sort of was, wasn’t he? He’d assisted on the equalizer and scored the winning goal and now they were going to the semifinals and – _holy shit, he’d really done that, hadn’t he?_ The entire day feels like the most insane, out of body experience, like he is watching someone else’s life instead of living out his own. He feels this odd sensation, like he’s floating over reality.

He’d felt it from the moment that match ended – things would never be the same again. He’d made a mark that would be impossible for the football world to ignore. And some part of him hadn’t felt ready for it. Still doesn’t feel ready for it.

His agent, Kingsley, had seen him at the stadium afterwards, but has left three voicemails and texted him like twenty times since then. But James can’t look at those right now. He’s tired and he’s thrilled, and he can’t talk about options and contracts now. He _had_ taken a quick glance at his Instagram though, when a PR person had asked him to post on his story after the match – he’d seen the number of notifications he had, panicked, and immediately turned off his phone, promising to do it later.

He’s not ready yet, for whatever is about to happen. He’ll deal with all of it in the morning.

It’s only when he walks into The Rabbit Hole that night, at almost eleven, that he feels some semblance of reality start to settle back in. This is real life. This is normal, he comes here every single week, sometimes several times. Stepping into this most familiar of places is like stepping out of a dream and back into the real world, and James feels his heartbeat finally slow to a somewhat normal pace.

That is, until he sees Lily mixing a drink, and even the _concept_ of calm becomes as complex as the physics in the book he’s sure she’s hiding behind the bar, just as she had on Thursday. He’s never been good at physics.

Her brilliant green eyes are stunning even from across the length of the room and her dark red hair spills across her bare shoulders in pretty waves. The place is relatively busy since it’s a Saturday night, and it’s a little warm inside. Lily has a slight flush in her cheeks and she is wearing a tank top that is, if he’s being perfectly honest, completely unfair to the rest of humanity. She already has his heart beating a frantic rhythm all over again. If he keeps getting this excited every time he sees her, he’s going to have to find a new place to get cappuccinos, lest he suffer an untimely heart attack and miss out on a glorious football career altogether.

For a startling moment, he wants to turn around and leave, because she’s so breathtaking and he doesn’t know how to talk to her right now and if she doesn’t want to be friends anymore it’s going to ruin an otherwise perfect night and maybe it’s best to wait until tomorrow – but she looks up and catches his eye and when she smiles that smile – _breathtaking –_ his feet carry him to her off their own accord. He’s knows the other employees working and waves at them, but he’s focused on Lily. Gideon, a friend he’s known since before he started working here, raises an eyebrow at him, but James ignores him.

“Well well,” Lily says as he approaches the bar. “If it isn’t Chelsea’s Lightning Bolt.”

James laughs, a nervous sound, not at all smooth like her voice had been. “Chelsea’s what?”

Lily smiles sheepishly. “I guess you haven’t seen the articles about yourself yet. Or twitter. The internet is calling you Chelsea’s Lightning Bolt.” She pauses for a brief moment as James raises his eyebrows at her. “Full disclosure, I googled you after the match. I was curious.”

James stares at her, a little startled. A little unsettled. After a moment, he says, “Uh, that’s a lot of information. Articles? Twitter? Lightning bolt? You _googled_ me?”

“What, like you’ve never googled anyone?”

“Well I have, but it doesn’t seem like the kind of thing you’d do.”

“It’s the kind of thing _everyone_ does. I feel like when you meet someone and then they turn out to be a famous football player, googling is justified. Necessary, even.” This conversation is already making him feel a bit… strange.

“I’m not famous,” he says, not sure why that’s the piece he felt the need to respond to, but it’s weird to hear.

Lily snorts. “You are now, lightning bolt.” _Yeah, it’s weird. She definitely feels weird about this._ “And really, I should have googled you sooner. Could have saved myself some confusion.”

There it is. James opens his mouth to apologize, but a customer calls her over to order a drink, and she holds a finger up to him and walks away to serve them. It’s convenient, because he needs the time. James spends the minutes she’s gone formulating what he’s going to say, though to little avail. There are various iterations of _I’m so sorry I’m an idiot, please still be my friend_ still circling through his useless brain when she returns.

“Are you gonna order a drink?” she asks.

James glances at the time on his phone and shakes his head. “I don’t really drink, and your shift’s almost over, right? Do you wanna go somewhere else?”

Lily nods, but looks at him skeptically. “You’re some big fancy athlete and you don’t drink?”

James laughs. “Um, yeah, that’s exactly why. I know people think all athletes do is drink and party or whatever, but it’s midseason. We get drug and alcohol tested constantly. And alcohol messes with your body too much for people whose entire job relies on our bodies performing perfectly.” He sounds defensive, even to his own ears, and stops himself from rattling off a list. _Decreased muscle recovery, interrupted sleep pattern, changes in appetite, dehydration and depleted energy, and shut the hell up James._

“That makes sense,” Lily says. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that I think all you do is drink and party. Obviously, that’s not what you do.”

“Oh no, it’s fine, I just wanted to explain.” He almost adds _because you hate football players_ but stops himself, not wanting to sound accusatory, because that’s not how he means it and this is already so weird.

“Yeah, but I mean, it really is obvious because you were really good today. _Really_ good. Did I already congratulate you? Congratulations!” She’s speaking a little fast. It’s starting to feel awkward.

“Yeah, you did earlier. Thanks.”

There’s some silence, brittle and awkward, and he doesn’t like it. His heart is sinking a little – it hadn’t been weird even when he’d just met her. Had he ruined everything before anything had even really started? That would be quite on brand for him.

“So um, my shift is about over,” she says at last. “I’m just gonna clock out and grab my stuff?”

“Sure. I’ll wait outside?”

“Sure.”

James nods and goes outside, waiting for her by the door. He feels the sudden urge to open up his Twitter app to see if people are really talking about him – is that really what he took from that conversation? Shit, he’s vain – but he fights it. He can’t have that on his mind now. One thing at a time. Fix the awkwardness with Lily. Then worry about the internet. A plan, yes. He likes plans.

Lily comes out a few minutes later and puts her hands in her coat pockets. “It’s cold.”

“My car’s parked not too far from here,” he says, nodding in the general direction as he starts walking. She walks with him but doesn’t say anything. “So, you googled me?” He asks, just for something to say. “What did you find?”

“Well, no signs that you’re a serial killer, so that’s good news.”

James laughs. “Oh good, that’s a relief. I wasn’t sure.”

“There is a James Potter in Birmingham who compulsively steals the wheels off toy cars, though. He’s fifty-seven. You aren’t a kleptomaniac, are you?”

“Not right now, but I’ll report back when I’m fifty-seven.”

Lily nods. “Also, you know… that you’ve played for Chelsea since you were fourteen.”

“Right. There is that.”

“How come you didn’t mention it?” Lily asks, her tone casual in a way that sounds like she’s _trying_ to sound casual.

“Um… you sort of, you know, gave me the impression that you’re not a particularly huge fan of football players.”

“To be fair, so did _you._ And you _are_ one. So that’s kind of confusing.”

James can feel his face burning, and he’s _so_ glad it’s probably red with cold anyways. “Yeah. I guess I did sort of give off that impression. But to be fair, I stand by what I said. They did spend too much on Levinson, he’s just not that good, and – that’s not the point, sorry.”

“Why did you say all that if you’re a football player? I assume you didn’t just find out today too?”

“Uh, no, I definitely knew before today.” Lily waits for him to continue, and James wills the ground to swallow him up. This is _so_ embarrassing. Why can’t he just be a normal person who says and does normal things, like not pretending to hate football players while he is, in fact, a football player?

Finally, he lets out a heavy sigh, his breath fogging up in the air before him, and stops to face Lily. He _hates_ when things get awkward, and it hadn’t been weird with Lily before. It had been startling and wonderful how _not_ awkward things had been from the moment he met her. He has to fix this, or at least clear the air, regardless of the outcome. “Okay. I really hate awkward conversations, so I’m just going to plow through. Do you want the honest truth, Lily?”

“Preferably, yeah.” She turns to face him too.

“Okay.” He pauses again. She waits. “Okay. The honest truth. Honestly, what happened is that you’re really fucking pretty, and I lost my shit. Basically.”

Lily stares at him for a moment, like she can’t quite believe what he’s saying – he can’t blame her, he has been known to lie – and something flashes across her face, but then she bursts out laughing. The flush in her cheeks deepens a little and sweeps down her neck, no longer just the cold. “ _What?”_

James groans. “Don’t make me say it again.”

“No, come on. Did you say you lost your shit because I’m pretty?” She grins widely at him.

“Now you’re just fishing for compliments. But I said really fucking pretty, actually.”

Lily shakes her head, maybe in exasperation and maybe in disbelief, an amused grin on her face all the same. “Thank you. And you’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, as if I don’t know. Sirius made fun of me for _days_. And then when I saw you again, it’s like, how do you even broach that topic again? What was I supposed to say? Hey Lily, remember when I agreed with you about hating football players last week? Surprise, I lied. And also, I am one.”

“That’s a fair point. Although I did ask you what you decided to do with your life, so that might have been an opportune moment to throw it in.”

“It would have been embarrassing either way, and I figured you’d find out at the match anyways and then never talk to me again and… you know. I wanted you to like me, I guess?” Shit, this is _so_ embarrassing. Why would he say that? If Sirius could see him now, he’d never let it go. He’d write it into James’ eulogy (which he’ll need to prepare quite soon, as James has plans to throw himself off a building after this).

“I _do_ like you, you idiot. We’re friends now, remember?”

She likes him! She _likes_ him. Of course he notices the boundary right away, casual as it is. I like you, as a _friend_. But that’s fine, because she likes him, and he doesn’t have time to date anyways, and he likes her as a friend too. He and Lily could be great friends. It’s for the best, anyways. “You did last time I saw you. Has… your opinion of me changed now?” He starts walking again, because he can’t stay still anymore, and she walks beside him.

“No. For a minute there I thought you were this cool, famous athlete, but then you texted me ten times, and I was like, yeah, that’s anti-dwarves James.”

James laughs at that, his shoulders relaxing a little. “I’m serious. You _did_ say you hate football players. And I, as we’ve already established, am one.”

“I _don’t_ hate football players, or football. It sort of came out wrong. I only meant that I’m… not a huge fan of any system where there’s that kind of disproportionate level of wealth and privilege for some people, and then other people live in poverty, you know?”

James nods. “Okay. You’re not wrong.”

“I wasn’t talking about football players specifically. Just the way things work. But that’s not really any football player’s fault, they’re just doing their job.”

“Our job that is just kicking a ball around, hm?”

Lily shifts uncomfortably. James doesn’t want to put her on the spot. But… he likes her, and he doesn’t want her to have a low opinion of what he does, because _he_ is proud of it. “No! That was just a throwaway comment, to drive the point home. I know how hard professional athletes work and train constantly to play the way they do. I know how much discipline and dedication it takes.” She looks up at him as they walk. “And James, _you_ were incredible today. I’m not just saying that. I don’t know how much time and work you have to put in to get to that level, but believe me, I know you’re not just playing with a ball.”

“Thanks, Lily. Really.” James cracks a smile, finally genuine. “So, you don’t hate me or my job. And I’m not a headcase, just a dunce. All sorted?”

Lily laughs. “All sorted. Unless you’re hiding some other huge revelation?”

“You googled me, wouldn’t you know?”

“I only read your profile on Chelsea’s website. I didn’t like stalk your Wikipedia page or your Facebook or anything.”

James unlocks his car as they approach, vaguely wondering if he should open her door or if that’s weird. He wouldn’t open the door for his other friends, and that’s what Lily is. His friend, like she’d said. His really fucking pretty friend, but his friend nonetheless. It’s probably best if he doesn’t, because… well, now he’s gone and opened the door anyways. Oh well, it’s only polite, and she’s never been in his car before, and that’s why it’s different. Not because she’s really fucking pretty. Yes. That’s exactly it.

Lily smiles at him. “Thank you.” She’s looking around when he gets in the driver’s side, and he’s glad he at least had the sense to clean his car last week. Look at him go, making sound decisions. Not that it matters, because friends are allowed in messy cars. “This is a nice car.”

“Thanks. I didn’t make it or anything, but you know, thanks.” _Ugh, shut up._ Lily raises an amused eyebrow at him – she’s so talented, she can raise _one_ eyebrow – and he diverts to their previous topic. “And I don’t have Facebook.”

“Okay. I’m going to be honest, I did look at your Instagram.”

“Did you follow me?”

“No.”

“What? Why not?”

“I didn’t _want_ you to know I looked you up!”

“Well I do now, so you have follow me, or I’ll be terribly offended. Where are we going, by the way?” He’s driving, but not sure where to. “Are you hungry?”

“Yeah, but it’s actually kind of late, and I have to get up early to catch up on homework. Do you mind just taking me home?”

He’s a little disappointed, but it’s for the best. Sirius will want to go to Amar’s party and the earlier they go, the earlier they can leave. James needs _some_ sleep. “Sure, no problem.”

When she’s put her address in his GPS and they’re on their way, she asks, “So, no other revelations? You’re not a crime lord?”

“I have to be honest Lily, I am not super comfortable with how many crimes you’ve accused me of today. Or with the fact that you got in a car with me anyways.”

“Shut up. Now I _know_ you’re avoiding telling me something. So, what? Are you a crown prince? An evil politician’s son? Or, I dunno, heir to a multibillion-dollar empire or something?”

“I mean my dad has a business but it’s not a big deal.” It’s just a small lie. It doesn’t matter anyways. She doesn’t need to know option three is dead on, and it’s far too uncomfortable to bring up. Too personal for right now. “Anyways, you know so many things about me, and I don’t even know your last name. That’s hardly fair.”

“It’s Evans.”

“Lily Evans. That’s a nice name.”

“Thanks. I mean I didn’t choose it or anything, but you know, thanks.”

“Shut up, you’re so rude. I’m complimenting you and you’re making fun of me.”

Lily chuckles. “It’s hard to resist, you’re so easy to make fun of. By the way, my roommate Marlene is a _huge_ Chelsea fan. She’s the one who got us tickets to the match today. And uh, at some point, she is definitely going to show up at The Rabbit Hole to try to meet you. Just… fair warning, and I’m sorry in advance.”

James snorts. “Please. My best friend is _Sirius_. My entire life is apologizing on his behalf, you got to experience that first hand already. I think I can handle meeting your friend who happens to be a fan of my team.”

“She’s been harassing me all day because I told you I hate footballers.”

“Rightfully so, that was very rude of you.”

“Once she sees how annoying you are, she’s going to hate footballers too.”

“I’m Chelsea’s Lightning Bolt, she’ll never hate me.”

“ _Wow.”_

“Your friend Marlene and I are going to be the best of friends, I can already tell.”

Lily laughs, and then they lapse into a comfortable quiet until he drives up her street and parks outside of her flat complex.

She smiles at him as she unbuckles her seatbelt. “Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem.” He thinks about it for only a split second before he continues. “Marlene doesn’t have to come to The Rabbit Hole, by the way. Sirius and I invite some friends over for a game night kinda thing every now and then, we’re doing it next week. You and your friends should come,” he says, casual as anything. Game night with her friends and his friends. Easy, fun, no pressure – he could do that. If they’re going to be friends, they might as well just be proper friends. “Overly competitive drunks fighting over Monopoly is always a good time.”

Lily grins. “That sounds fun. Are you sure Sirius won’t mind?”

“I doubt it, I invite lots of people he hates, which is only partially me being petty and mostly just a consequence of the fact that he hates a lot of people. But he actually likes you.”

 “Alright, text me the details.” She smiles as she steps out of the car. “See you Thursday?”

“If you don’t, I’m probably dead.”

“I’ll come to your funeral.”

“Thanks so much. Follow me on Instagram. Also Twitter, I’m dead funny.”

“I think I hate you. Goodnight, James.”

James grins. “Goodnight, Lily.”

Then she turns around and walks inside. James lets out a breath, wishing he could bottle up this day and keep it forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHHH. Please leave me a review, and come talk to me on Tumblr: moonawrites.tumblr.com (For real. Please come talk to me)


	4. Are you feeling okay?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry for taking 6 months to update this. It was hard to find time to write while taking 6 final year engg classes, but that's done now and so is chapter 4! I hope all the Jily interaction makes up for my long absence. Enjoy!

**Chapter 4: Are you feeling okay?**

“You’re no longer playing for the youth side at all,” Kingsley confirms, fingers moving furiously across his phone screen as he speaks. James doesn’t mind – he is almost definitely speaking to someone on his behalf anyways.

“Nope. And Aguado only wants me dipping back to the U-23s for a handful of key matches,” James says. His agent puts his phone down on the table between them, and focuses his full attention on him. James can hardly control his grin. “Said I gain nothing from playing with players that aren’t at my level, and that he doesn’t want to overplay me and risk an injury. I’m pretty much exclusively first team now.”

It’s Tuesday now, and James’ head is still spinning from Saturday. It’s odd to think how much everything has changed already, and all he did was play one match. Granted, it was one extremely important match. Not just a league game or a domestic cup that only English fans would care about – it was a Champion’s League semi-final. All of Europe will have watched it.

Last night, he’d been watching a Sky Sports segment while having his dinner, when he’d seen his own face on his TV. By then, James had already read several articles about the match and his performance. He had heard what commentators had to say about him while watching back match highlights (notably, that he deserved to be on the lineup for _every_ match and was a football star in the making). He’d even had Aguado tell him in front of the whole squad that he had been wrong, James _was_ the best player on the pitch that day.

But he hadn’t expected to be talked about beyond that, so he felt it justified when his excitement lead to his dinner being spilled all over himself and the living room rug. He may be a professional now, but he is not quite so used to seeing himself on his favourite segment that he could stop himself from jumping up in excitement in the privacy of his own home. Kyle Ray, who happened to be James’ favourite English football commentator, raved that his goal was the best of the season so far. James had whooped loudly at that.

He had carried that energy with him into his training session that morning, and he’d needed it to counter the increasing negativity he was getting from Coleman. Not that he cares – James is too happy to be bothered, and  Coleman is a later problem.  

Now, he’s meeting with his agent to discuss… the messier side of his job. They’re sat at a cafe that is not quite as good as the Rabbit Hole, but it’s close to Kinglsey’s office.

 “And you’re starting lineup tomorrow. FA cup, against City. Big match,” Kingsley says thoughtfully. “I’d say you’ve earned some trust.”

“Mhm. People online practically petitioned to have me on the lineup for this match,” James tells him, taking a sip of his cappuccino. With Kingsley, it’s not bragging. He needs to tell his agent these things – or so Kingsley has told him.

“You were one of the top searches in England this weekend, did I tell you?”

James is amazed that the muscles in his face haven’t given out yet, what with all the smiling he’s been doing lately. “No, but I have gained more than a hundred thousand followers in a few days,” he says, shaking his head in awe. “I honestly can’t believe it.”

“People want to see more of you. Chelsea wants you doing more promotional content now. Behind the scenes for their social media, event appearances and the like.”

“Okay. That’s a good thing, right? If the fans want more of me, I mean.”

“It is. Chelsea are capitalizing on the surge of interest in you and turning you into a celebrity, the offers will only get bigger from here.”

James sighs. The messy part. “I told you, I only want Chelsea. Just get me a good deal here.”

“Manchester United requested a chance to speak with you,” Kingsley tells him, watching him over his cup of tea. James’ eyes widen slightly – he can’t help it, his interest is peaked. His agent knows it, had counted on it. “Bayern Munich doubled down on theirs,” he continues, smiling now. “The more you play, and especially if you continue to perform the way you have recently, the bigger and better the offers from other clubs are going to get. Factor in the exposure you’ll be getting off the pitch now that Chelsea wants to capitalize on the fans’ love for you. In the next few months, you’re going to become the hottest young commodity in football.”

Even coming from his agent, whose job involves selling James as a football player, James has to fight the urge to shift in his seat. The praise is as hard to hear in person as it is pleasant, it’s a strange sensation. “Great, so get me a _really fucking good_ deal at Chelsea.”

Kingsley sighs. “James, you need to at least entertain the interest from other clubs, take them seriously even if your end goal is Chelsea. If they know how badly you want to stay, they’re not going to work very hard to keep you.”

“You know that I don’t really care about the money,” James says – mostly for the reaction, which doesn’t disappoint: Kingsley coughs around his mouthful of tea and promptly puts his cup back on the table. James’ lips twitch as he continues, “I want to play football at my favourite club, and I want starting lineup every single week. That’s what matters to me.”

Kingsley clutches his chest dramatically, prompting an amused grin from James. “Don’t _ever_ say that out loud again. To me, or anyone else. What they give you in exchange for you playing for them, your worth as an athlete, is going to define your career. And for an eighteen-year-old with hardly a season’s worth of first team experience, you’re worth a hell of a lot right now. Don’t do _anything_ to sabotage that.”

James waves his hand noncommittally. He’s heard this lecture a million times. “I know, I know. So what are they offering now?”

Kingsley pushes his phone across the table to him. James skims over the email, his eyebrows shooting up as he looks back at his agent. “Damn. That’s pretty good!” Kingsley only shakes his head as he pulls his phone back, and James frowns. “What? It’s a massive upgrade from what I’ve got now.”

“Yes, and they want a lot more from you now than they did when you signed that contract. They want you to play on the first team, they want to sell your shirt and put your face on posters and put you in front of every camera they can find, they want to sell your story as the academy star that rose up to become a first team star.”

“So? I _am_ an academy star that rose up to become a first team star.”

“There you go, show me some arrogance! You’re ready to do everything for less than what you can demand now, because you’re a Chelsea fan – enough of that. You’re not a Chelsea fan. You’re a professional football player. Make them sweat a little, they’ll offer you what you deserve.”

James sighs, slumping against the back of his chair. He always wishes he could have the sport without this madness tied in, but Kingsley is right. It is the progression of his career on the line here. “Fine,” he says, finally giving in. “What do I need to do?”

“You need to start showing interest in the other clubs that want you.”

James wrinkles his nose, taking another sip of his cappuccino. “It just feels dirty. Like I’m cheating on Chelsea or something.”

“Chelsea is your club, not your girlfriend. This is about your career. You’re not doing anything wrong by speaking to other clubs with your current club’s permission.”

“What did Chelsea have to say about those requests anyways?”

“Denied. But if _you_ request an opportunity to speak with other clubs, knowing how much interest there is, that alone is going to make them worry. It’s not a transfer request, it’s not a big deal. Just make it known that you’re at least interested in what others have to offer. They’re going to step up to keep you, because if you don’t reach an agreement now, there’s nothing they can do to stop you leaving in the summer anyways.”

“Okay. Request it. Let them know I want at least the option to talk to everyone who wants to talk to me.”

Kingsley smiles. “That’s more like it.”

“The end goal is still Chelsea,” James reminds him, running a hand through his hair. He tugs uncomfortably on the ends. “I’m not super thrilled about this whole thing.”

“You will be when your club begs you to stay.”

“And what if they don’t?” James asks, sitting up straight again. He leans forward, elbows on the table like his mum tells him not to do. “What if someone makes an offer they don’t want to refuse, and they let me go? I might be good, but I’m still new.”

“Not a chance,” Kingsley assures him. “That’s one thing they’ve made clear – they want you as badly as you want them. We won’t push harder than we have to. Trust me on this.”

James nods. Kingsley is good at his job, and though it makes him nervous, James knows he can trust his expertise. “Alright, fine. What else do we need to talk about?”

“I’m thinking it’s time to grow your team beyond me and your mother now,” Kingsley says. “A PR representative, at the very least.”

“Mum can handle that.”

“She’s looking at CVs as we speak, I had a list ready to go before you even touched the ball on Saturday.”

James smiles at that. “Good to know you have that much faith in me.”

“Of course I do. Now, how do you feel about a Nike endorsement?”

* * *

 “How deep into her profile are you?”

James briefly glances up from his phone to look at Sirius, who is sitting far too close to him and looking over his shoulder instead of at the television. Sirius always turns the TV on too loud and then doesn’t watch it, because he’s just annoying like that. He also always sniffs out any opportunity to make fun of James, and he must be sensing one now. It’s Friday evening, and James has been scrolling through Lily’s Instagram profile for at least a half hour now.

“Shut up. I looked at like three pictures.”

The truth is, James has looked at about thirty-six. The current one is from Halloween… two years ago. He’s been staring at this one for a while, and honestly, it’s not his fault. Lily is wearing a green cloak over a long, flowy dress (it brings out her eyes), her hair intricately done with braids woven into the dark auburn waves, a delicate crown atop her head. There’s glitter on her eyes and her ears have been done to look pointed – obviously, she’s dressed up as the most stunning, beautiful, ethereal elf in all the land. And she’d called him a nerd! He is, but she dressed up as a Kingdom of Ashes character for Halloween!

Sirius snorts. “Liar.”

James sighs. One of these days, he is going to make good on his threats and actually move out. “Maybe _you_ lie about everything for fun, but _I_ am an honest, respectable man. _Why_ would I lie?”

Sirius looks at him thoughtfully for a moment. Contemplating why he’s so annoying and rude, perhaps. And then, so quickly James doesn’t register what he’s doing in time to pull his phone away – all his hard-earned football reflexes have abandoned him – Sirius reaches over and double taps on the picture.

James jumps up with an incomprehensible yell, dropping the phone as if it’s burned him. He glares at Sirius, who is laughing like he hasn’t just ruined James’ life and invited his own murder. “See? _Liar._ ”

“She’s going to think I’m crazy!”

“You _are_ crazy, mate.”

“Lily doesn’t have to know that!”

“She does. Does pretending to hate football players while _being_ a football player ring any bells?”

“Fair point. Well made.” James sinks back down onto the couch. “She stalked me first anyways.”

“If that makes you feel better.”

“And we’re friends. It’s fine.”

“I can see that’s going really well for you so far.”

“Will you just shut up and watch your show?”

“I don’t appreciate being abused by you just because you’re horny, you know.”

“It’s not _just_ because I’m horny. It’s also because you are the actual worst person in the entire world.”

“Oh, ouch, I’m stung,” Sirius deadpans. “Better the worst than the _saddest.”_

“Yeah? Well I get to play footy for a career and never have to do maths ever again in my life.”

“That’s just uncalled for. Your ego is becoming unbearable.”

“You’ve been unbearable for three years now.”

“I’m curious to know what the threshold was? What happened three years ago?”

James is saved from answering by the doorbell ringing. “Thank God, someone I like is here.”

He can hear Sirius muttering about him getting ruder every day as he leaves the living room.  Remus is at the door, holding a couple of bags full of snacks for game night. Remus always has snacks – he, unlike Sirius, is an all-around pleasant person to be around.

Remus greets him with a smile as he comes in, and James takes the bags from him. “Hey. Geraldine stopped me in the lobby to tell me to tell you to stop telling her children there are Yetis in their flat. They are very traumatized and she’s losing sleep.”

“Good. Geraldine needs to stop taking up half my parking spot every day,” James says with probably unnecessary venom, as he is speaking to Remus, not Geraldine herself. “I’ve even offered to teach her how to park! She took that pretty badly.”

Remus walks past James and into the living room. “Well, I did my part.”

“And, it is not my fault Geraldine raised stupid children!” James continues, following him into the living room. He drops the bags onto the coffee table. “Yetis in a London flat? She deserves the headache.”

Remus sighs and flops onto one of the many beanbags in their living room, evidently regretting opening up this dam.

“Also, her new boyfriend loiters in the lobby and plays trap music without earphones in. She’s lucky I haven’t fed her children to an actual Yeti.”

“There are no Yetis in London, James,” Sirius says. “Get a grip. I’m telling you, we need to get a mean dog.”

“If _you_ haven’t scared them off, what makes you think a dog will?” Remus asks. James nods in agreement. “Anyways, it’s hardly her kids’ fault their mother is Geraldine.”

“Don’t even get me _started_ on her kids,” Sirius says at the same time that James scoffs indignantly.

“Are you two hearing yourselves right now? You sound like bitter old retirees who lost their pension to a bad investment and cope by complaining about the unruly youths in their neighbourhood.”

“We were told there were no kids in this building!” Sirius defends. “And not only are there kids, there is also _Geraldine_.”

James nods in agreement. “We are completely justified in our anger.”

“And in our bad behaviour,” Sirius adds, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. “I put up a flyer by the mailboxes with a new number for tenant complaints. It’s Geraldine’s.”

James can high-five to that, offering up an appreciative “ _Nice!”_ as he slaps his palm into Sirius’.

Remus gives up on pretending to judge them, and he laughs too. After all, Remus is a much nicer person than he and Sirius… but it’s Geraldine, and everyone has their limits.

x.x.x.x.x

An hour later, the flat is full of James and Sirius’ friends.

Game night is one of Sirius’ better ideas. Every couple of weeks, they invite some of their friends over to play games, drink beer (minus James), eat, catch up, and generally just have a good time. Ten to fifteen of them – it’s the perfect number of people: enough so that they can play one huge game or have several smaller games going at any given time, but not so many that it stops feeling like they’re hanging out and it just becomes a party. It’s genius, really. They have snacks and drinks and later in the evening, they vote on food to order in. It’s a nice way to keep in touch with all of their friends at a time when everyone is doing different things and going different places. Sirius would die before admitting it, but he is quite the sentimental sap.

It’s always the two of them and Remus and Peter, of course, and they invite some friends from secondary school that they like enough to keep in touch with. Then, there’s the new additions. New people from uni or work or… any number of random and questionable places, in Sirius’ case. The new additions often get rotated on and off… and sometimes phased out. James’ ex Cecilia, for example, is obviously no longer invited. But Dorcas, Remus’ friend from Cambridge, has graduated from the every-other-time rotation to a permanent invite. It’s a cutthroat system, but it is necessary for the sanctity of game night. Though occasionally Sirius tries to create it, game night is a drama free event.

James would be lying if he said he isn’t the most excited about this week’s new additions: Lily and her flatmates. He’s never met Mary or Marlene, but he’s sure if they’re Lily’s friends, they must be cool. They have yet to arrive, which is good, because he has yet to collect himself.

“I’m a bit offended you don’t put in this much effort to see me,” Remus says from his spot laying on James’ bed. James momentarily stops fussing with his hair to glare at him.

“You don’t know how much effort I put in, you always see me _after_ it’s done.”

“You’re doing your hair after everybody else, including me, is already here.”

“I’m just… touching up.”

There’s a knock at the door. Remus grins and rapidly jumps up off the bed and to his feet. “I’m gonna go tell Lily you’re touching up!”

James’ mouth drops a little. “ _What?_ How –”

“Sirius. Why ask?” And with that, Remus leaves the room. Concluding that his hair has obviously not become manageable over night, James gives up and follows him out.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, Sirius has already gotten to the door and let Lily and the two other girls in.

“James is making himself extra pretty for you,” Sirius tells Lily by way of greeting, but James is too busy staring at Lily to even be mad.

They’re just friends, of course, but his heart still skips a beat. James is pretty sure it’s okay to feel your heart skip a beat when you see one of your very pretty friends after a long time of not seeing them. Especially when said friend shrugs out of her coat and is wearing a very nice, form fitting, dark green sweater underneath – she _has_ to be doing that on purpose, there’s no way she doesn’t know how this colour makes her eyes look (so pretty it’s hard to even look at her, but he’ll suffer for it). And it’s hardly his fault if she smiles specifically at him, is it? It’s a platonic heart skip. _And_ the sweater has a shoulder cut-out, damn her (in a platonic, _just friends_ way, of course).

And okay sure, it hasn’t _really_ been a long time since he saw Lily… in fact, he did see her just yesterday. But he only had enough time to order his cappuccino and go (he’d thought she would improve with time, but it seems Lily’s cappuccinos have reached their peak. Maybe next time he’ll get tea). James had wanted to stay and talk, but he had to go to a media training session. It would have been annoying if it wasn’t for the fact that it was because his amazing performance on Saturday had brought with it a ton of attention he is not yet used to.

So, it is perfectly normal for him to be this excited to see… his friend. But maybe he should look at the other two girls as well. And possibly walk over to them, and say some words, too.

One of Lily’s friends, tall and blonde and blue-eyed, spots him first, and her eyes widen a little – she must be Marlene, the Chelsea fan. James smiles and holds out his hand to her. “Hey. I’m James.”

Marlene stares at him for a moment, then sighs defeatedly and shakes his hand. “Sorry, I was trying to think of something to say besides _I know_ but I can’t, so… _I know._ ”

“You could say _Hi James, I’m Marlene,”_ their other friend says. She’s the shortest of the three, despite her tall boots, and has a head of dark, curly hair.

James laughs. “ _I know._ And you must be Mary. It’s nice to meet you guys.”

“Oh, so you did tell him about us!” Mary says to Lily. Then she turns to Remus and Sirius and eyes them both up, with no amount of subtlety. “You told us how cute James is, but you never mentioned his friends.”

James raises an eyebrow at Lily, unable to fight his smirk as her face flushes.

Sirius makes an offended sound and frowns at Lily. “You didn’t tell your friends how attractive I am? Rude.” Lily still looks a little flustered, but she manages an eyeroll.

Mary takes off her coat and shoves it into James’ hands, nodding in her friends’ direction. “I don’t know which of them is more excited to see you, so I’m just going to try to balance this all out.” Lily groans. Sirius looks like he’s about to wet himself with excitement.

“So um, this is Sirius and Remus,” James says, pointing to each of his friends in turn.

From the living room, he hears someone swearing loudly. “And that’s Peter. You’ll meet him after he’s done with this round of Uno,” Remus adds.

James hangs Mary’s coat with the others in the hall closet, then leads them out of the entryway and into the living room.

“HEY, EVERYBODY!” he yells. It takes fifteen seconds for everyone else and an additional ten for Peter to calm down and look their way. “This is Lily, Marlene, and Mary,” he says, pointing to each of them in turn. Then he waves his hand in the general direction of his friends. “This is everybody. I’m sure you’ll learn their names at some point.”

When everyone has said hello and returned to their games, Sirius points down the hall. “Bathroom is the first door on the left. James’ bedroom is the door across from it. You can snoop in there but not in mine.” He points at the island separating the kitchen from the living room, where snacks and drinks have been set up. “Help yourself to food and drinks. Wifi password is by the TV. Join a game or start a new one. Peter is nicer than the impression he will make on you tonight if you play literally anything with him, James will play FIFA with you if you ask nicely but he’ll hate you after, and yes, Remus _is_ single. I think that covers everything?”

“Wow, okay. Thanks.” Lily only looks slightly taken aback – she must be getting used to Sirius. She looks around the space.

Their living room has floor to ceiling windows and leads into an open concept kitchen, separated by a marble top island. There’s a large flat screen hung on the main wall, across from a blue sectional sofa. In front of it sits a big round coffee table, where a group of their friends are in the midst of a game. The flat is very stylishly made and tastefully furnished, though they had little to do with that – as Euphemia had dramatically declared when she’d appointed herself as their interior designer, “I cannot have my children living in squalor!”

But James is quite proud of the bits they did do – the art they’d picked out to fill the space (two of the pieces are from Genie), and especially the numerous beanbags, which he can admit they went overboard with, but he loves them anyways. One wall has an intricate, colourful mural started – it’s a project he and Sirius have been working on for months now. Admittedly, it’s mostly Sirius’ work, he’s a far more talented artist than James. But he lets James contribute here and there. There’s a ladder propped up against it still.

“This is a really nice place,” Lily says.

“Thanks, it was a gift,” Sirius throws over his shoulder, already heading back to the coffee table, where he must have been playing Pandemic with a few of the others. Mary snorts in amusement and heads towards the drinks setup.

“I’m sorry about him,” James says.

“I’m sorry about her,” Lily replies.

“By _gift_ , he means his dead uncle left it for him in his will,” Remus explains helpfully.

“RIP Uncle Al,” James adds, solemnly placing a hand on his chest.

“You have very interesting friends,” Marlene says to Lily.

James grins. “Thank you! Anyone up for a game of Exploding Kittens? We need to start a game right now or I’m going to bring up Lily telling everyone I’m cute – oh shit. Too late.”

“Was that you who liked a two-year-old picture on Instagram an hour ago?”

“Touché. I’ll get the game.”

x.x.x.x.x 

“I have three hairy potatoes!” Lily exclaims, throwing the cards down on the pile with enthusiastic vigour. “Peter,” she says with maybe a little too much satisfaction on her face, like it’s high stakes poker and she’s about to win a hundred thousand pounds, “I want your diffuse card.”

Peter looks like he really has just lost a hundred thousand pounds. He looks like he wants to die as he hands over the card – and he will, soon. Lily has made sure of it.

“Thank you!” she says brightly, tucking the card neatly into her hand. “And… oh. Look at that. A skip card.” She throws that one down too. “Your turn again,” she says sweetly.

The others playing – James, Sirius, Mary and Marlene, all of them having already lost – lean in with interest. James and Sirius are practically shaking with anticipation. Remus pauses his game of Uno and comes over to watch, joining them on the floor by the window. Everyone in the room seems to be watching – this, clearly, is a much bigger deal to them than it is to Lily, but damn it if she’s not enjoying playing into the drama anyways.

Lily’s ‘see the future card’ has given them all a look at what is clearly coming next. Peter glares venomously at her, lethargically reaching over to pick a card up off the deck. Despite knowing it was going to happen, Peter still stares at the card in silent disbelief, which slowly gives way to utter heartbreak as the seconds tick by. Everyone waits with bated breath for him to speak, to react. But when he continues to just sit there, Sirius sighs impatiently and reaches across the circle they’ve made on the floor to grab the card out of his hand.

Sirius whoops triumphantly, jumping to his feet and thrusting the card into the air for everyone to see. “EXPLODING KITTEN!” he yells, aggressively throwing the card back onto the pile. “PETER HAS BEEN DEFEATED!” As the others in the room start cheering – there is _applause_ – Peter sinks to the floor wordlessly. Laying there, unmoving and silent, is a stark contrast to the yelling he has been doing all night. He takes this _very_ seriously.

Lily had thought James was being (characteristically) dramatic when he claimed that Peter has uncannily good luck with card games and never ( _ever ever)_ loses. But the cheering and applause and toasts – people are _toasting_ to her and to his downfall – tell her it must be true.

“You are the perfect woman, Lily Evans,” Sirius says to her. “I know you guys voted for pizza, but Lily wants Chinese, and she defeated the evil, so we’re getting Chinese.”

“Okay,” Lily says through a laugh. “This is a good night!”

“And it’s for the best,” James says. “I can’t eat pizza, and you’re about to find out Lee’s Garden has the best Chinese food in London.”

“Chinese Food is the best Chinese food in London,” Lily states with confidence. Not an argument, but a simple statement of fact.

“I’ve lived here for nineteen years, I would know. You’re brand new.”

“Have you been to Chinese Food?”

“No. Have you been to Lee’s Garden?”

“No. But I’m on a winning streak.”

“Well, it’s about to end.”

“We’ll see. Is Peter going to be okay?”

James glances at his friend – still laying unmoving on the floor – and shrugs. They seem to have drifted away from Peter’s limp form and everyone else without noticing. “Yeah. This doesn’t happen often. Last time was Halloween, he overcompensated for his loss by drinking too much, then projectile vomited off our balcony. So this is actually pretty good, he’ll be fine when the food gets here.”

“Are you _all_ this dramatic?”

“I mean… yeah. Remus will say he isn’t, but he’s definitely the worst one. It’s why we’ve been friends for so long, no one else will have us.”

Lily laughs. “Okay, I’ve really been trying not to comment on it, but… _you can’t eat pizza?”_

James sighs. “There it is.”

“It’s just sad!”

“It’s really not, I don’t care.”

“Your job really sucks.”

“I’m going to Rome tomorrow, so there’s that.”

“Can you eat pizza in Rome?”

“That is not the point!”

Lily grins. “Alright, alright. Don’t get all worked up now. What’re you going to Rome for?”

“We’re playing A.S. Roma on Sunday. It’s just a friendly, and then there’s some media stuff.”

“Is that what your media training was for?”

“No. That was because during a post match interview on Saturday, a reporter asked me how I was feeling and I said, ‘Pretty fucking good, mate.’ And then I said ‘Shit, sorry, I forgot I’m not allowed to swear.’”  He shakes his head when Lily bursts out laughing, but he’s laughing too. “Hey, cut me some slack! I was excited, and I told the truth.”

“Thank god you’ve started to do that.”

“One day, you’re going to have to let the whole lying about being a football player thing go.”

“I don’t, and I won’t.”

“I’m never inviting you over again.”

“It doesn’t matter, Sirius thinks I’m the perfect woman. He’ll invite me.”

“I can veto his invites, so you better watch yourself.”

“You guys take this thing _very_ seriously.”

“Yes, and you should be grateful for it. If half the people Sirius suggested actually came, no one would be safe. Trust me, I know from experience. One of his _friends_ tried to do black magic on me.”

Lily shakes her head, half amused but half… just not even sure anymore. What is this guy? “You’re lying.”

“I’ve literally never lied in my entire life.” Lily hasn’t even opened her mouth to respond when he holds up a hand and quickly adds, “Don’t respond to that with footballergate. Seriously, come up with something new, it’s been years.”

“Footballergate?” Lily wheezes, a laugh bubbling up in her chest, getting caught, and turning into a snort on its way out. Her cheeks burn, but she’s red from laughing anyways.

James laughs too, either at his own joke or at the sound it elicited from her – probably both. “Giving my scandals a name makes me feel important. And I’m gonna go order the food now, before you come up with something rude to say.”

“You’re not famous enough for scandals with names,” she calls after him as he tries to get away. “Get a hold of yourself.”

James’ laugh, and the brilliant grin he throws her over his shoulder, make her breath hitch.

_Get a hold of yourself_. She ought to take her own advice.

x.x.x.x.x

“The night was dark and cold. A frigid wind chilled the inhabitants of the town in their beds, rattling windows and coaxing creaks from the rafters of the aging buildings. It carried with it the sense of something dangerous, an impending doom that grew more and more insurmountable with each night that the werewolves continued to roam.”

Transfixed, Lily watches James speak from his spot sitting cross-legged on the floor, outside the circle of his friends. Her eyes are open – she’s already dead this round – and she’s having even more fun watching him. James is the most committed Mafia (or as they like to play it, Vampires) narrator she’s ever come across, going so far as to dim the lights in the flat and play eerie music in the background to supplement the story he weaves into the game.

Peter snickers. “Oooohhhhh. Terrifying.”

“Shut the fuck up, Peter!” Sirius snaps. “You’re ruining the _ambiance.”_

“The townspeople were exhausted,” James continues, ignoring them both. “It was hard, living this life of constant fear. They went to bed each night with terror in their hearts, dread seeping into their very bones, knowing that someone wouldn’t wake up the next day. Sleep was more and more elusive, thoughts of who would be the next to go driving away any hope of rest. Who had lived their final day? Everyone hoped it wouldn’t be them, or someone they loved. Most hoped it would be Peter Pettigrew, the asshole who kept ruining the ambiance.”

“Hey!” Peter whines. The others in the circle, including Lily, laugh. James throws a smile her way – God, he is so nice to look at.

“Though the night felt endlessly long already, it was hardly midnight when finally, they struck again. Vampires, open your eyes.”

There’s a knock at the door just as Remus and a couple of the others open their eyes. James hops up to his feet. “Then a brave lad named James Potter valiantly slayed all the vampires, the town was safe, they built a statue in his honour, and the food had arrived. The end.”

In the end, they’d ordered Chinese _and_ pizza – to be fair to the voters (“Game Night is a democratic institution!” according to James), but also to reward Lily for defeating the evil (who had perked up immediately when Sirius suggested they play Vampires to kill time before the food arrived).

James and Sirius carry in the obscene amount of food and set it up on their kitchen counter. A short while later, Lily is sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, balancing a plate of food piled high on her lap. James spots her and walks over to sit across from her. His own plate features lots of vegetables and absolutely nothing deep-fried, even though the flat is now full of mouth-watering aromas.  

“Are you having a good time?” he asks.

“This is honestly the best games night I’ve ever been a part of,” Lily tells him earnestly, earning a wide smile from James. “Your friends are all so nice.”

And they are, from the brief introductions she’s had to all of them throughout the evening. Alice and Frank (who are nineteen and _engaged_ ) and Gideon (who she knows from working with him at The Rabbit Hole) and Fabian (who is Gideon’s twin) and Hestia (who might be dating Sirius but she still can’t tell, and neither can they) all went to secondary school with James, Sirius, Remus and Peter (who are, evidently, the best of friends).  Dorcas is Remus’ friend from Cambridge, where they’re both studying. And Mateo, who Sirius claims he tried to veto (though Lily doubts it, they seem to get along quite well) is James’ friend from Chelsea’s youth team. But that’s about all she knows about them, because she’s mostly just talked to James.

“Even Sirius?”

“He has his own unique charm.”

James laughs. “Your friends are great too. Mary is hilarious. And Marlene knows _so_ much about football.”

“Has she been driving you crazy with questions all night?”

“Nah. Believe it or not, I actually like talking about the thing I’ve dedicated my life to. She’s really cool about it. Plus, she only asked me _one_ sort of invasive question, so she’s doing pretty well.”

Lily groans. “What did she ask?”

“Why I had commitment issues with Chelsea until last year. Which, incidentally, I did not know was common knowledge.”

Lily cringes. “What did you tell her?”

James shrugs. “Just that I was young and hadn’t fully decided what I wanted to do with my life yet.”

“Sounds like an evasive lie.”

“Clever girl. Did you get that lab report done yesterday?” She’d been working on it between customers at The Rabbit Hole yesterday – it was due at midnight last night, and she had been so stressed about getting it done.

“Submitted at 11:59 PM.”

“Shit, that’s cutting it close. But you got her done!” he says, holding his hand up for a high-five. Lily smiles and slaps her palm into his.

“I’m _so_ sick of school,” she sighs.

“You’re in your first year!”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.”

A little crease appears between James’ dark brows. “Don’t you like what you’re studying?”

 “It’s what I want to be studying.”

“But do you like it?”

Lily shrugs. “Honestly? I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like I’m out of my depth. I never really planned on studying bioengineering.”

“Why are you studying it?” James asks, and Lily is suddenly aware of where the conversation has led them. Something about James makes him so easy to talk to, so easy to lose track of time and boundaries with. She has a hard time admitting the difficulties she’s having at uni to anyone, and here she is, telling her newest friend about it. And now, seeing the earnest, genuine curiosity on his face… damn her, she wants to tell him more. She wants the weight off her chest, she wants to say it out loud to someone.

“Because of my mum,” Lily admits.

“Oh.” James’ frown deepens. “She pushed you towards it?”

Lily puts her plate down on the floor beside her and wipes her hands on a napkin. Maybe he senses the conversation is about to get serious, because James puts his own plate down and inches a little closer to her. She’s glad that she picked a spot away from the others.

She’s not sure how to start, and James waits patiently.

“You don’t have to tell me, Lily,” he says when she doesn’t say anything for a while. “I was just curious, and I understand what it’s like to have a parent push you towards something. But I’m sorry if I overstepped.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just kind of hard to talk about.”

“I’m open to listening,” James says. The look on his face is so tender. “But only if you want to tell me.”

Lily smiles gratefully at him. There’s really no right place to start, so at long last, she just starts talking. “I honestly didn’t really know what I wanted to do, I just kind of vaguely thought that it was going to be something creative,” she begins. “And then my mum got diagnosed with brain cancer. Three years ago.” She watches his face as she says it. James is expressive in general, and most people react very strongly to that statement. Though he looks mildly shocked at the turn the conversation has taken, James just waits for her to continue, listening intently.

“All of it happened _so_ quickly. Within a span of two months, we noticed her vague and sometimes random symptoms get suddenly worse, she _finally_ got the right tests done, we finally found out she had a grade-four tumour on her brain. But by the time all the tests came back, and she was approved for surgery, she was dead.” Lily’s voice cracks near the end.

It never, ever gets easier to tell this story. Never gets easier to remember it, the pain and fury as fresh now as it had been on that nightmare of a day three years ago. November 17th. It was cold, the wind sharp and the clouds dark, like an omen. Or maybe that’s just how her grief clouded memory has twisted it.

She doesn’t notice her hands are shaking until James reaches over and takes each one in one of his.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, the words barely a breath. “That’s… that’s so devastating. I’m so sorry you went through that.”

Lily stares at their clasped hands, now resting on his knees. “Me too,” she says quietly. “And that’s why I picked biomedical engineering. Its just… unreal to me that it’s 2017 and that kind of thing still happens. If she’d been diagnosed earlier, she might have lived long enough that we wouldn’t have been so blindsided by it, you know?”

“Is that what you’re planning to do? Engineer better diagnostics technology?”

Lily looks up at him, mildly surprised, and nods. “Yes, exactly. Imperial does a lot of really amazing biomedical sensing, diagnostics and imaging research. I want to be a part of it. I mean obviously so many other factors play into a late cancer diagnosis, but I can’t fix every crack in the system. I’ve always had a knack for maths and science though, so…” she trails off and shrugs. “It seemed like the thing to do.”

“And now you don’t like it?”

Lily absentmindedly turns her hands over in James’ and plays with his fingers. He’s so focused on her face, her words, he doesn’t seem to notice. If he does, he says nothing.

“I’m passionate about it. I want to be a part of a solution to this _so_ badly. It’s just harder than I expected. Sometimes I can’t keep up, and I think I picked the wrong thing. And then I feel guilty for being so weak about it when my mum is gone, and it’s like, this is the least I can do for her.” Lily smiles, and she feels how bitter it is. “Something I might’ve talked to my mum about, if she were here. But I guess that’s why I have to do it.”

“You’re the most incredible person I’ve ever met, Lily Evans,” James says, hazel eyes fixed on hers. Lily is startled – at his words, at the intensity in his gaze. He’s sitting so close, she can pick out the individual shades of brown and green in his eyes, the ring of gold around his pupils.

“Because my mother is dead?” she says. She hears the edge in her voice. Talking about this always brings out her most bitter and angry side, and she can’t help it. She suddenly wishes she could take it all back. Now he’s going to feel sorry for her and walk on eggshells around her. Now he won’t want to tell her anything, because he’ll think his own problems can’t compare to her tragedy. He won’t know how to act around a girl with a dead mother, and their too new friendship will fizzle out when one or both of them gets tired of the effort it takes to make it normal. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Because you endured an unimaginable tragedy and your reaction was to decide you’re going to fix the issue that caused it. You’re so much stronger and so much more resilient than I could be. _And_ , you’re brilliant.” He squeezes her hands gently. “Look, everything worthwhile is hard. It takes more time and energy than anybody wants to expend, half the time it seems like you signed up for more than you could ever possibly take on. But you just push through, right? One day at a time. You’re not out of your depth, you wouldn’t have gotten into Imperial if you weren’t good enough for this. The main thing is that you have the drive for it, and you do.”

_Huh. Maybe not._

Lily can’t help smiling at that. She squeezes his hands back. “You’re sweet,” she says, gently tugging her hands from his. “And such an athlete.”

James raises an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

“Only an athlete could pull an inspirational speech like that out of their arse on a moment’s notice.”

James lets out a laugh. “I’m being a supportive friend!”

“I know. And I appreciate it so much. You have no idea how nice it is to hear that sort of thing out loud sometimes.”

“I think I do,” he says. “I mean it’s hardly the same thing, but I feel out of my depth too most of the time. I just chalk it up to being new and young and everyone around me being more experienced, but hearing some reassurance is nice sometimes.”

“It is. And James?”

“Hm?”

“Please don’t do that thing where I told you a sad thing that happened to me and now you feel like you can’t tell me anything because you think it’s not as serious, okay?”

“Okay,” he says simply.

Lily lets out a heavy sigh. “I feel like someone just lifted a rock off my chest. I haven’t really talked about this with anybody. It feels nice to say it out loud.”

“I’m glad you feel better,” James says. “You can talk to me any time. Really.”

“Thank you. So.” Lily smiles at him, properly this time. She is ready to move on to a cheerier topic. “Looks like you had another great game on Wednesday.”

“Did you hear from Marlene?” he asks.

The truth is, she’d watched the match with Marlene, cheering James on from their living room – he’d been spectacular once again. And then she’d watched his post-match interviews, indulged in every bit of commentary on his recent games that she could find, and fallen down a rabbit hole of every YouTube video even remotely related to him. Since Saturday, it seems he’s sort of blown up. It’s kind of crazy to her that she’d seen him on TV last night and now she’s sitting next to him on the floor in his flat.

Out loud, she says, “Actually, I watched it with her.”

“Well yeah, we won! It was a good day. A good week, really.”

“How’re you handling everything? Seems like things have gotten pretty crazy for you.”

“Yeah. I’m really not handling it, because I honestly can’t believe most of it. I feel like I’m living someone else’s life.”

“You’d better get used to it. It is, in fact, your life.”

“It’s all just _so_ weird.”

“I bet. I’ve always wondered what it’s like for a celebrity when they first become famous.” James is starting to turn a little red, and Lily laughs. “Oh, come on. You’ve got to at least stop getting flustered when someone points out your imminent fame. Isn’t that part of the territory when you make it as a professional athlete?”

“I guess, but it’s still just mad weird.”

Lily nods and drops it. She thinks it’s cute that it gets him flustered, but she doesn’t want to make him talk about it if it makes him uncomfortable. “Alright, I told you why I picked my career. Why did you pick yours?”

“I just love football,” James says, not even thinking about it for a second. “My dad was a huge fan, I’ve watched football with him since I was little. Watching it made me want to play, so I started playing for fun and turned out to be pretty good. It’s just… the thing I do best, and that makes me the happiest.”

“That’s really sweet. Your dad must be so proud of you.”

James’ hand immediately shoots into his hair, tugging on the ends uncomfortably. “Not really.”

“What do you mean? You’re doing amazing.”

“He’s a huge fan of watching the game and he loved it for as long as I was only interested in watching it too. But I guess he had other plans for me, and I think I’ve kind of let him down by choosing football instead.”

Lily gives him an incredulous look. “You think you’ve _let him down?_ James, you’re eighteen and a professional athlete!”

“I _know_ I’ve let him down, because he’s said as much.”

“ _Why?”_ Lily is stunned.

“He wanted me to join him at his company. He’s not happy that I decided I don’t want to.”

“ _Oh_. Is that what you were talking about, knowing what it’s like to have a parent push you towards something?” James nods, and Lily suddenly understands. “That’s what the commitment issues were all about.”

James runs a hand through his hair again.

“Yeah. I wasn’t sure whether I was really going to give up on taking up the family business or not. I mean I definitely knew I wanted to play football, I just didn’t know if I could disappoint my dad like that, you know? Because we were really close. I wanted to… I dunno. Make him happy and proud, I guess? And I didn’t know if I’d ever actually make it as a football player anyways. That was around the time I should’ve been applying to uni, and I realized that I couldn’t. I just finally decided there was nothing else I wanted to do besides football, and I wanted to give it a proper shot. Dad took my decision pretty badly.”

“What happened?”

“He told me that if I wanted to pursue this stupid, childish dream of mine, I could do it without his support. He wasn’t gonna pay for me to throw my life away or watch me do it. So…” he trails off and shrugs. “I moved out and Sirius and I moved here.”

Lily stares at him in shock. “He kicked you out?”

“Not explicitly, my mum would never let him do that. But it was just such a bad situation, I couldn’t keep living with him if I wanted to play football. I haven’t really talked to him since.”

“Fuck. I’m sorry, James.”

James shrugs again. “It’s… whatever. I know he just wants the best for me, and he didn’t want me to go through the disappointment of not making it. But things are looking pretty good right now, I’m sure he’ll come around.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he will,” Lily reassures him. Though by the hard set of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders, she can tell it hasn’t happened yet. Lily can’t fathom how he’s had the week he’s had, and his father apparently hasn’t even congratulated him.

James puts a smile on his face and claps his hands together. “Okay, enough of that. Don’t look at me like that, it’s really fine. My mum is basically my manager, she’s amazing enough for both of them.”

“It’s okay if it’s not fine though, you know? It really sucks that you’re doing something you love, and you’re doing _so_ well, and your dad isn’t supportive of it. You can be upset about it and it’s okay.”

“I know. It does suck, and it does kind of hurt. But there’s not anything I can do about it. I made my decision and now I just have to stick with it, and hopefully he’ll come around. If not, then…” he shrugs. “I still stick with the choice I made and focus on the good parts. Which is basically everything else.” He picks up his plate. “Our food is probably cold, I don’t want the temperature affecting your judgement of Lee’s Garden.”

Lily rolls her eyes. “It’s good, you freak. Not Chinese Food good, but it’s good.” She holds up a hand to stop his argument before he even begins. “And you can’t argue, I’m the only one who’s had both.”

x.x.x.x.x

When they get back to the others, there’s a shift between them. Lily suddenly feels like there’s no boundaries left between them. Like that’s it, they’re really friends now, no going back. She’d felt unnervingly comfortable with James Potter from the moment she met him, had been terrified that he would turn out to be a jerk who would make her pay for her inexplicable soft spot for him – but she knows quite certainly now that that won’t happen. Something about him is just too intrinsically good and kind for it. Lily’s a good judge of character, she’s okay trusting her gut on this.

They’re playing a game that James – and she can’t quite believe he’s real when he says this to the room – learned at improv class with his mum a few years ago.

“Basically, you have a scenario, and you have to hold a continuous conversation with just questions. First person to repeat a question or make a statement instead is out. You get ten seconds to come up with something,” James explains.

“Okay,” Sirius says. He glances at Lily, a mischievous little smirk on his face. “The scenario: you’re on a roller coaster and your car gets stuck upside down in a loop. James and Lily, go.”

“Are we going to die!?” James yells immediately.

“Will you calm down?” Lily replies.

“How am I supposed to calm down when we’re going to die?”

“Why can’t you think about something positive?”

“Why can’t you understand that we’re about to die?”

“Why can’t _you_ do something useful?”

“Like what, you want me to try climbing down?”

“Do you have anything to say that’s not stupid?”

James groans. “Oh fuck, we’re really going to die aren’t we?”

Lily sighs in mock frustration, but she’s talking around her own laughter. “Do you want me to push you off and end your misery?”

“Do you _want_ me to die?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Why aren’t you answering it?”

“How can you think I want you to die?”

“Aren’t you getting tired of me?”

“How could I ever get tired of _you?”_

“Is that not what you’re implying?”

“Don’t you know that I will _never_ get tired of you?”

“Do you really mean that?”

Lily swallows, her eyes on James. She says, “Of course I do.”

There’s a beat of silence in the room.

“Statement,” Sirius says, glancing between James and Lily, a smirk starting at the corners of his mouth. “James wins. Alice, you’re up.”

But James’ eyes are still on Lily.

* * *

 They’re proper friends after that.

More than proper friends. He’s heard about her mum and her struggles at uni and she’s heard about his dad. James might even go so far as to say that they’re _close_ friends.

It all happens kind of suddenly, kind of seamlessly, so that he hardly notices it. One moment, it’s February and he’s just met a girl named Lily Evans. The next, it’s mid-April and he somehow can’t picture his life without her.

They have a new Thursday routine. James goes to The Rabbit Hole in the morning as always, but now, Lily has a cappuccino ready for him. One week, Sirius brings up how much James loved it when Margaret wrote his name in the foam. Lily laughs at him about it all afternoon, but the following Thursday (and all the ones after that), his name is written in the foam of his cappuccino and she winks playfully when she passes it to him.

He sits at the bar and talks to her in between customers for as long as he can stay. She tells him about her classes and her friends. He tells her about what an unbearable dick Michael Coleman is (and God, has Michael Coleman become an unbearable dick). Sometimes, she’s too busy to talk, and studies between customers instead. On those days, James sits quietly and reads or talks to Sirius if he’s there. But he likes her company anyways.

They always seem to be texting – even now, as James walks to his car to make the drive home from Cobham, his phone is open to a conversation with Lily.

**_about to leave, when are you off?_ **

_An hour-ish?_

**_need a ride?_ **

_Yes please!_

**_see ya in an hour_ **

Sirius thinks he’s ridiculous for it, but James has learned Lily’s work schedule, and when it coincides with his, he drives her home. Lily’s not a huge fan of the tube, and it’s just another excuse to spend time together around their busy schedules.

An hour later, he’s parked on a narrow street, a couple blocks down from The Rabbit Hole. He’d love to go inside, but it’s too late for caffeine and he can’t drink midweek and he can’t get a donut so there’s really nothing in there for him besides temptation. It’s a short wait before Lily gets in the passenger seat.

“I made you a pre-dinner smoothie,” she says, holding the light blue-purple drink up. James eyes it suspiciously as he takes it – he has been victim to many of Lily’s failed smoothie experiments. He still has nightmares about her sweet potato, beets, turmeric and coconut milk concoction. She’d claimed she thought it might work out to be one of those weird combinations that are actually delicious, but he suspects she just wanted to see him suffer.

“What is this?” he asks, trying to smell it through the plastic cup.

“Just try it.”

James eyes her wearily. “What’s in it?”

“Oh come on. Don’t you trust me?”

James snorts. “Obviously not.”

“I swear it’s good, I had some!” She looks so earnest, too. So innocent. It makes him all the more suspicious.

“Fine, but if you’re lying, you have to walk home.”

Lily rolls her eyes as James makes a big show of taking a deep breath before he finally takes a sip. He gets ready to gag dramatically, but… it’s surprisingly delicious.

“Wait, this is actually really good,” he says, still suspicious. He takes another sip before he starts driving. “Did you really make this?”

“I’m so offended right now.”

“Don’t be, you’ve known you suck at this for a while.”

“Harsh. True, though.”

“What’s in this, for real?”

“Blueberries, honey, vanilla, almond milk, lemon and a lavender infusion.”

“Damn, that’s sophisticated. You can’t make a cappuccino, but you can figure out how to make this?”

“I don’t know how my many obscure talents work.”

It’s so easy being Lily’s friend. They never run out of things to talk about. Not when he drives her home, not on their long Thursday mornings, not over their ongoing text conversations, not even during movies – and they both _hate_ _it_ when people talk through movies.

When they arrive at Lily’s flat, she asks, “What’re you doing for dinner?”

“Haven’t decided yet, you?”

“I’m craving Chinese Food, do you wanna stay?”

“Can’t ever say no to Chinese Food.”

James had initially been bummed that Lily was right after all – Chinese Food, despite its uninspired name, is in fact better than his beloved Lee’s. But Lee’s will always have a special place in his heart, it’s still close to his flat, and he can hardly complain about good food. Especially not when it comes with good company.

When they get up to her flat, it’s empty. Lily informs him that Marlene is at her boyfriend’s and Mary is working late.

Suddenly, ridiculously, James feels a bit nervous about being here and considers making an excuse to leave – but that’s insane. He’s alone with Lily all the time. Not in her flat though. But what does it matter if it’s his car or her flat? He doesn’t know but it _does_. He has to remind himself that this isn’t a date. But that opens up a whole other can of worms – _of course_ it’s not a date. Why would he even think that? God, can he shut up already? Why does he literally have the most annoying brain of all time? It’s lucky Lily can’t read minds. Oh god _WHAT IF LILY CAN –_

“James?”

“Hmm?” He focuses his attention on Lily, standing in front of him with a takeout menu and her phone in hand. When had she gone into the kitchen to take it out of her menu drawer and come back? He anxiously drags a hand through his hair. This – being an idiot around Lily, _his friend_ Lily – hasn’t happened in a while.

She waves the menu in his face. “I asked you what you wanted.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.” He takes the menu from her and opens it, though the words don’t register when he tries to read them. Now he’s just embarrassed.

“Are you feeling okay?” Lily asks, a slight frown forming on her gorgeous face. _Stop it you can’t just call your friend gorgeous in your head all the time._

“Yeah. I think I’m just tired. Steamed dumplings and the beef and veg I got last time?” It’s not a lie. His post-training exhaustion doesn’t always hit right away, but it always hits.

Lily nods and takes the menu back. While she goes back into the kitchen to put it away, James turns the TV on, letting the familiarity of it calm him down. He puts on an episode of Friends from her _Continue Watching_ list on Netflix, and she joins him on the couch after she’s ordered the food.

“Is Coleman still being a dick?” Lily asks, a hint of concern on her face.

“He’ll always be a dick, it’s ingrained in his character,” James says. He wants to be lighthearted, he feels bad that his near meltdown made her worry. But this, Coleman’s hostility – it genuinely does stress him out every day that he has to see him. “I swear he’s trying to injure me on purpose.”

“Doesn’t everyone see what he does? How is he allowed to get away with it?” Lily asks, his frustration echoed in her voice.

“He’s a lot more subtle than he was that first time. He’s just super aggressive, it’s like I can’t focus on actually training because half my energy is focused on avoiding him and avoiding a fight. I’ve never had to work so hard to control myself.”

“Can’t you do something about it? Like, I dunno, isn’t there someone you can talk to?”

James shrugs. “Coleman is very important to Chelsea. As long as he keeps scoring goals, he can pretty much get away with anything. Kingsley told me to just focus on my training and ignore him. He thinks it might affect my place at the club if I start anything. And I don’t want to be the kid that whines when things are a little tough, you know? I’m really lucky to get to play at all.”

“You’re not lucky, you’re talented. And this is gonna blow over, eventually he’ll have to get tired of this too.”

“I hope. How was your day?”

“Mild. Got my calculus homework done early.”

“Ugh. Still prefer Coleman to calculus.”

“How would you know? You’ve never taken a calc class.”

“Do _you_ enjoy it?”

“That’s not important. The point is, _you_ can’t know if you’d like it.”

“You should know by now that I hate things I’m not good at, and maths of any kind is something that I am decidedly not good at.”

“That’s not true. You like a challenge. If Sirius said you could never do calculus, you’d learn it just to spite him.”

“True. Please never suggest that to him, I don’t want to learn.”

“Why, because you’re scared you couldn’t do it?”

“No! I bet I could. I just don’t want – okay, I get it. Stop laughing.”

Lily grins. “You’re insane, honestly.”

“I’m going to master calculus just to spite _you_.”

And just like that, it’s like the almost meltdown never happened. It’s just Lily. His thoughtful friend Lily who put lavender in his smoothie because she’d told him lavender tea might help him relax after a stressful training day and he’d said he didn’t like the taste. His close friend Lily, who he never runs out of things to talk about with, who can recite any episode of Friends by heart, who can take complex integrals in her sleep (probably), and who makes him feel instantly at ease just by being around.

When he gets home later, Sirius is on the couch working on his laptop, legs spread out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He has his concentration face on, but he glances up from the screen when James comes in.

“Hey. You’re late.”

“I got dinner.”

Sirius puts his laptop down. “With Lily?”

James almost winces. “Yes.”

“Interesting.” There’s an irritating glint of amusement in Sirius’ sharp eyes. “How’s that going?”

“What?”

“Your inappropriate crush on your new best friend?”

James considers just telling him to shut up, but instead, he sighs and flops onto the other end of the couch. “Great. Should be ready to throw myself off a cliff any day now.”

It’s so easy being Lily’s friend, James can almost forget he’d wanted more.

_Almost._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think in the comments and come chat with me on tumblr! (seriously pls) (moonawrites.tumblr.com)
> 
> P.S. Thank you to everyone who interacts with me on tumblr and sent me messages about this story - every time I got one, it motivated me to get back to writing. And 250+ kudos!!!!!! Just. Thank you for reading. <3


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